


Like a Thief in the Night

by Violetwilson



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, General tomfoolery, Irresponsible Drinking, Jazz Age, alright FINE it's nancy drew but with 50 percent more sexiness and getting locked in cellars, irresponsible EVERYTHING, sleuthing, so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-08-30 04:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16757362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwilson/pseuds/Violetwilson
Summary: Rey sets her gin down on the mahogany desk and stares at Ben."You want to bring me toMillennium Island?You've gone mad. Your old money friends would chase me out with pitchforks before I ever managed to catch your art thief. Which would be highly unlikely to begin with, given that I have no plausible reason for being there. The game would be up the minute I arrived."Ben leans back in his arm chair, his eyes hooded, and takes a long drag on his cigarette."Not if you agreed to marry me."





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

* * *

 We were very tired, we were very merry.

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay. "[Recuerdo](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14404/recuerdo)." (1922)_

* * *

**Chapter One**

Rey Kenobi is working late. Again.

Her current case is a fairly standard adultery case, but that doesn’t diminish its interest for her. A cheating husband, a grieved wife looking for evidence to pursue a divorce case. The increasing popularity of divorce among the upper classes has spiked the demand for discreet individuals who can furnish evidence to convince a judge of infidelity. And Rey Kenobi, former streetrat and current businesswoman, is more than happy to supply that demand.

She’s been successful in her current line of work, and if she got her start in a back-alley art forgery mill. Well. No one need ever know.

So when she hears the knock on the door, she’s half-expecting to see a fashionable, hollow-eyed woman or a discrete, nicely dressed lady’s maid standing in her doorway.

But it’s not anyone she’s expecting. It’s Ben Solo in a rumpled tuxedo.

Rey sits up, staring at him. It feels like she’s seeing a ghost. And, truly, he looks awful. Dark circles under his dark eyes, a faint dusting of dark stubble across his jaw, his dress shirt half undone at his neck. Scratch that, she amends, he doesn’t look terrible, he looks a little drunk.

“Ben Solo?” Rey hears herself say.

He leans against the doorway, his eyes hooded.

“Before you ask,” he says, his voice surprisingly clear despite his swimming eyes, “Yes, I _did_ get absolutely trashed to build up the courage to come here.”

Rey’s lips twitch. “Charming. Well, come in.”

He does, and she’s not sure if she imagines the brief look of relief that flits across his aristocratic features.

“Thought you might tell me to sod off.”

Rey blinks, discretely pushing the gold pen he’d bought her under yesterday’s newspaper. She doesn’t want to talk about the past. She _really_ doesn’t want to talk about it.

“For god’s sake, Ben, don’t just stand there,” she grumbles, getting to her feet and gesturing him towards the overstuffed armchair which had always been his favorite. He obliges, his eyes lingering on her face as he moves heavily to the chair. When he finally brings his great body to rest, he leans his head back and Rey sees the full extent the years have taken on him.

He looks older. Of course, it’s been years since she’s seen him in person, but his name has been in enough newspapers since their last encounter that it’s no mystery what he’s been up to. Financial work and general debauchery. Boating, traveling, and even water skiing. She’s not sure she believes that last one. Somehow, she can’t picture the serious, intense young man she knew being yanked around on a towline behind a motorized boat.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I doubt you need one,” Rey says fondly, wondering if he still likes whiskey sodas.

Ben chuckles. “To the point, as ever.”

A silence falls between them, and he tugs at his shirt, opening it still further. She always liked his neck. Rey blows out a long breath and walks around the front of her large desk, nudging aside her most recent case files and reference books. The New York lines get more crowded each year, and in her line of work, she needs plenty of space for phone directories. The pocket watch open on top of one of the volumes tells her that it’s nearly one A.M.

“I think you won’t like me much, after I tell you this,” Ben says finally.

“Ben,” Rey scolds, “I’m not angry. You know that.”

“But you never called me. After that night-”

Rey crosses his arms. “I took a bullet to the leg and we both ended up in the hospital. You can hardly blame me for souring on criminal cases.”

Ben’s eyes open fractionally wider. “I _don’t_ blame you. Never did. I felt the same, if you want to know the truth.”

“And I do appreciate the truth,” Rey says, a little sharper than she meant to.

Ben blows out a long breath. “I’m sorry for that, too. I’m still sorry.”

Rey wants to retort something sharp, but the sudden memory stops her tongue.

“I wish you’d just told me you were a Skywalker. Might have spared us both some embarrassment,” Rey mutters. She’s sure she still has that newspaper somewhere, tucked in a file folder in the back of a dark room.

_BEN SOLO, HEIR TO SKYWALKER FORTUNE, INJURED IN SHOOTOUT._

And then, in smaller text underneath, _MYSTERY COMPANION AS YET UNNAMED_.

“I know,” he says. “And I did apologize.”

And he had. Earnestly. With the genuine feeling and sincerity of which he was a master when he cared about something. Like justice. Like her.

Rey rubs her neck, feeling the weight of that baggage settling down over her shoulders like a heavy fur coat.

“And I appreciated that, but it just…it just felt-”

It felt like suddenly there was a cavernous hole between them. She had felt akin to him when she thought they were both nobodies with no fortune or pocket cash. To learn that he was miles and miles above her and always had been had taken the sense of intimacy she’d felt with him.

And, if she’s honest with herself, she’d had to admit to herself that they had no real future. Not that he’d ever indicated any interest, per say, but she’d thought…maybe….once the war was over…

Ben groans. “I swear I didn’t actually come here to revisit the past.”

“Alright,” Rey concedes, “What have you got for me?”

Ben takes a deep breath and sits up, his large form settling the cushion deeper into the frame as he tents his hands on his knees and looks up at her.

“Millennium Island.”

Rey stares. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“You’re investigating those art heists?”

“It’s my lousy hometown, shouldn’t I be?” he says grouchily. He seems lucid enough, she decides. He always could hold his liquor.

Rey arches a brow, unable to keep the doubt from her voice. “Aren’t you out of the business? I seem to recall you giving it up for…what was it…”

“Financial modeling,” Ben supplies. “And if you must know, I could never quite forget it. I’ve kept up with your career. You’ve done well.”

The fondness in his eyes, the faint note of pride makes her skin prickle.

“Let’s not get distracted,” she says firmly. “What’s your hunch?”

When Ben is involved, there’s always a hunch. Always.

He sets his jaw, his eyes focusing on the middle distance. “It’s one of the residents doing the theft. One of my family’s neighbors.”

Rey waits for him to flesh his claim out, to assert his supporting points, but he doesn’t.

“Ben…” Rey trails off. Maybe he’s lost his touch. Maybe he’s just drunker than he looks.

As if reading her thoughts, his eyes go keen and sharp. “I can’t explain it, Rey, but I’m convinced it has to be an insider.”

“Why would anyone on that island be stealing? It must be a servant or a fisherman, or-”

“The crimes demonstrate an insider perspective. Knowledge of individual members’ personal vices and preferences. Their taste in food, the dates of their parties, the layout of their homes.”

Rey shrugs, unconvinced. “Any burglar worth his salt cases a joint before robbing it. That’s hardly surprising.”

Ben’s eyes blaze. “They drugged Poe Dameron’s dog. They stole from Phasma’s family while they were having a party downstairs. Something… something is rotten.”

Rey hesitates. She’s seen him this convicted twice before, and both times he’d been right. The second time, granted, his correct hunch had lead them straight into the secret lair of a crime ring and gotten both of them damn close to death. But. He _had_ been right. And even if he is a rich boy degenerate, she knows enough about him to trust his instincts. So she doesn’t tell Ben that he’s crazy.

She just says, “What do your parents think?”

Ben leans back in his chair. “They won’t hear it. They can’t believe that any of their neighbors would do something like that.”

“Has your family’s collection been looted?”

The Skywalker collection is mostly old masters, if Rey’s memory serves. Renaissance drawings and some late classical portraiture.

“Not yet,” Ben says darkly.

“So what are you doing here? I thought you’d be at home, guarding it,” she says.

He flashes her a grin. “You know I prefer offense to defense.”

“So, you came to me for help on that point? Ben, you know I don’t take criminal cases-”

“I know,” he interjects. “But I’m asking you anyway.”

“Why?”

Ben’s attention narrows in on her face. “Because you’re too talented to sit here helping rich old ladies divorce their philandering husbands.”

Rey stiffens. “I happen to enjoy liberating women from terrible marriages.”

“Fine, then stay at it. But help me solve my case first. I swear, if you do, I’ll never ask you for anything again. And-”

“If you offer me a retainer I’ll throw my Bartlett’s at you, Ben,” Rey snaps.

His smiles. “Alright, alright. But you’re the only person I can trust. I need you on this.”

Mollified slightly, Rey considers. About ten thousand obstacles present themselves for her consideration. She opens her mouth to voice one of the ten hundred, but he heads her off.

“Before you say it, no, they’re not all terrible snobs. Most of them are perfectly decent people, _despite_ your prejudice against the rich.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a prejudice against the rich.”

“Your opinion of me certainly changed once you found out who I was,” he points out. Withdrawing a silver cigarette case with A.S. on the side, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

Rey rubs her temples as the familiar, homey smell if the smell of Egyptian tobacco smoke fills the air, and decides she needs something stronger than a head rub. Moving briskly to the sideboard, she pulls out a bottle of New York’s finest bootleg gin and pours herself a glass.

Walking back to the desk, she takes a long drink and steadies herself before responding.

“I don’t want to talk about that, Ben. That’s over. We’re…we’re not a team anymore. You can’t just bring me in on something this high profile and expect me to drop everything and come to your aid. I have a different life now.”

Ben leans forward. “Maybe. But tell me honestly that you’re not bored out of your skull doing the same thing over and over again. That you’re not dying for a challenge.”

Rey stares at him. At his mobile mouth, his strong jaw, his piercing, intelligent eyes that have never once doubted her intelligence or capability. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

He leans forward, perhaps sensing her hesitation, and his hand twitches like he wants to reach out and take hers. Instead, he shoves it into his pocket, his eyes beaming into hers as his cigarette trails smoke into the dimly lit room.

“Come with me. Come to the island and meet everyone, and tell me what you think about it. As my guest. Call it a vacation, if you like.”

Rey sets her gin down on the mahogany desk and stares at Ben.

"You want to bring me to Millennium Island? You've gone mad. Your old money friends would chase me out with pitchforks before I ever managed to catch your art thief. Which would be highly unlikely to begin with, given that I have no plausible reason for being there. The game would be up the minute I arrived."

Ben leans back in his armchair, his eyes hooded, and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

"Not if you agreed to marry me."

Rey stares. Hell, she gapes at him, her grip on her glass loosening slightly.

“You _are_ mad. You poor man, you’ve gone absolutely looney since I last saw you.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. “My reputation is poor enough that no one would doubt it if I decided to get married spur of the moment. It wouldn’t raise any suspicions why I came home suddenly. We’d have an excuse to go round the different houses and see all the crime scenes.”

“No one on earth would ever believe that story,” Rey says flatly.

“Why ever not?” he says, and she realizes that he sounds faintly insulted.

“Because I’m a nouveau riche upstart and you’re Ben Solo, professional degenerate.”

“I’m not a degenerate, I’d be a very good fiancée,” he snaps.

“I’m not questioning _that_. Just that I don’t think it would work.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “My set is a great deal less stuffy than you’re imagining. Finn and Poe will love you, and we only need to maintain the charade for a week or two while you and I do some digging around for evidence. Then we can call the engagement off. Stage a terrific row or something. Might be…cathartic.”

Rey finishes her drink in one acrid gulp. She’d forgotten how awful straight gin is.

“You’re insane. This whole thing is insane,” she says flatly. “No.”

Ben eyes her shrewdly.

“You’re considering it, aren’t you?”

She is. God help her, she is.

“Absolutely not.”

Ben has the decency not to smirk. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a velvet box.

“Oh no,” Rey says, straightening up and passionately wishing she’d poured herself something stronger. Ignoring this, Ben opens the box and holds it out to her. It’s a sable-cut diamond the size of her thumb nail.

“Good lord, Benjamin,” Rey says. “Give a girl some warning next time.”

“It was my grandmother’s,” he says calmly. “The art was hers too. I know you and I went different directions, but I care about this. This art is my family’s legacy, and for once in my life I mean to do something to help care for it. I’d be…” he swallows, and she knows that this type of a request is hard for him to make. “I’d be indebted to you for the rest of my life if you helped me. More than I already am.”

Rey stares at the ring, feeling a mix of dread, sympathy, and excitement swirling in her stomach. Woodenly, she reaches for the box.

“It’s… it’s beautiful.” Clearing her throat and wrangling her feelings, she snaps the lid shut. “I suppose this would be my engagement ring, if we went through with this farce?”

He nods, his eyes on her face.

Rey blows out a long breath. “I want to help you, Ben, I do. But it’s… it’s an awful lot. Would you give me a few days to think about it?”

“The next boat out to the Island leaves on Friday. If you agreed, I’d want to have a few meetings before then. Suppose you let me know by Thursday? That would give us enough time to get together a plan. Reconnect,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.

“Of course. That’s perfectly reasonable.”

She strokes the velvet box once, and then holds it out to him. Ben shakes his head, a little smile on his lips again.

“Keep it. Call it insurance.”

Rey wraps her fingers more tightly around the box and considers arguing, but in truth, she wants to look at it a little longer. Damn Ben for exploiting her secret love of shiny objects.

“Alright. Well, I’ll report back in a few days, then.”

“Good.”

They stare at each other, and Rey feels a sinking in the bottom of her heart that bodes poorly for her. Ben gets up.

“My extension is the same as it always was,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“I still remember,” she says.

Ben tosses her a careless smile, tugs his shirt straight, and waltzes unsteadily out the way he came in.

X

Rey sits back in her desk chair, spinning the engagement ring idly around her pinky finger. It feels…wrong, somehow, to put it on her ring finger, but after all, that’s what she’s considering, isn’t it?

Her mind wanders back to their last job. The disastrous one.

It had started out alright. Ben had approached her with a new job. Big money, which was something that Rey had desperately needed at the time. No financier alive would have ever invested in a good-for-nothing PI’s budding career, let alone a woman’s, and Rey badly wanted capital to finance larger scale operations. Investigations like hers usually required bribing someone, and that type of expense can hardly be written off on a tax form.

Ben had appeared in her doorway much the same as he had tonight, but this time he’d been grinning and sure of himself.

_“This is it,” he’d said. “This is the big one, Rey.”_

And of course, it had been the big one. Too big.

Wincing, Rey reaches up and brushes the scar on her leg. They’d been young and very naïve, hungry to do something to make the horrors of the war make sense, to restore some sense of justice to a world that seemed chaotic and pointless.

Her eyes flit down to the ring again, and then to a book on the top shelf of a bookshelf. Crossing to it, she reaches it up and brushes it off, exposing the familiar cover.

_Old Masters, their History and Provenance_

Throwing herself down in the leather armchair, Rey flips open to the “identification” section and begins to read.

She’s so engrossed in the text that she barely notices that the sun beginning to rise in the east. Her stomach growls, and Rey closes the book, feeling tired and interested. Something in her seems to have woken up, come into greater focus. Like in the past three hours a fog has lifted in her brain, despite the exhaustion and the gin and the late night. Stretching to ease the crick in her neck, Rey catches a glimpse of her hand. Sometime in the past hour, she’d slipped the ring onto her ring finger. It glints at her.

She crosses to her phone, picks it up, and waits for the operator to connect her, scowling at herself.

When Ben picks up, his voice is chilly and aristocratic, but not sleepy. She wonders if he stayed up, too.

“Solo,” is all he says.

“Ben, it’s me,” Rey says, leaning against the wall.

There’s a beat of silence, and his voice is warmer and much quieter when he says, “Have you made your decision?”

“There will be some conditions,” Rey informs him.

“I accept them,” Ben says instantly. “Whatever you need.”

“No guns,” Rey says. “And I’m not breaking into anywhere. Strictly above the belt.”

“Fine,” he says. “Can you come ‘round the house? I should brief you on a few things before we depart. And we’ll have to swap a few notes about what sort of people we are these days.”

Rey blinks, her pen halting on the page in the middle of scribbling down a few preliminary to-dos.

“Sorry, why?”

“Rey, we’re engaged,” he says, his voice full of mirth. “Or did you forget about that part?”

She swallows, praying fervently that the somersault her heart just did in her chest doesn’t mean anything. That it’s just nerves.

“Oh, that. Well, of course.”

“I’ll work on our cover story. Come by for lunch.”

He gives her the address and they hang up, and then Rey is alone in her empty office, her head spinning, her heart pounding. She has a sinking feeling that this was a very, very bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Welcome to a new fic! I hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
> I should go ahead and mention that characters in this fic demonstrate some Bad Takes about drinking, smoking, and other substances. Please don't medicate your feelings with substances! 
> 
> I'd love to have you join me on [my Tumblr](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) and [my Twitter.](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites)
> 
> Finally, BIG ups to [Christine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark) for being a general rock star, beta reader on this first chapter, cheerleader, and all around wonderful person. <3


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 The world stands out on either side

No wider than the heart is wide; 

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay. "[Renascence](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55993/renascence)." (1917)_

* * *

 

**Chapter Two**

 

Rey leans over the edge of the ferry, the wind tugging the scarf around her neck and the salty, late summer air sending trills of fresh pleasure down her spine. The next week of her life might be an exercise in self-denial and strangeness, but at least she’ll have good weather for it. On the ferry ride from the port to the island, the sky is as blue as the Mediterranean, with little sugar spun clouds high in the atmosphere and seagulls swooping overhead in vain hope of being tossed a sandwich crust. Rey envies their freedom, their screeching enthusiasm for the sheer joy of being alive. It makes her smile.

Ben startles her by appearing at her shoulder, a cup of coffee in a cheap mug in his hands. Courtesy of the ferryboat man’s steel percolator.

“Remember how we met?” he says, carefully handing her the cup.

“I gave you a concussion.”

“Served me right for breaking into your apartment. But to be fair, you did have the intense misfortune of living exactly one room over from a serial killer,” he says lightly.

“Alleged serial killer, we never managed to catch him, even after we teamed up,” Rey corrects, taking a sip. A strong, astringent taste on the edge of the bitter coffee taste has her peering into the cup with hopeful suspicion. “Is there brandy in this?”

He grins. “Told you I’d be a good fiancé.”

Rey shoves him one handedly, giving him a lopsided smile that he returns. She wonders what kind of woman Ben would _actually_ choose to marry. She’d have to be someone…energetic. Enough to keep up with him. Someone with the right connections to know how to navigate the haute monde and the seedier parts of the city that she suspects Ben still haunts. The drink is just starting to cool in her hands when she finally sees the faint suggestion of an island emerging from the haze.

“Oh, there it is,” Rey says, leaning forward slightly as if she can catch a better look at it.

Millennium Island is small, craggy, and above all _private_. Settled by three main families who have held almost the entire island since the early 1800’s, it has been the private playground of a handful of rich people since its settlement. Of course, its reputation for rowdy parties and freely flowing booze doesn’t help the mystique that clings to the craggy cliffs like morning fog. But still. It’s a reasonably respectable place. She’s confident she can pass as the sort of girl a man like Ben would marry for at least a few days before they’re discovered.

“Are you ready for this?” Ben says, leaning forward too. The sleeve of his jacket brushes hers, and Rey tries not to insert the usual amount of distance she’d ordinarily insist on between her body and another man’s. They’re engaged, after all. People will expect them to be…touchy.

Rey glances over her shoulder. “Worst case scenario, it’s only our sure social ruin. Or mine, anyway,” she mutters. “It’ll probably only add to your fame.”

Ben frowns. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not this time.”

Rey puts on a smile. “I dare the laws of social convention to disobey you, Ben.”

He turns his face back to the island swelling on the horizon.

“You can see the houses from here.”

“They all face the bay?” Rey says, squinting her eyes to catch a glimpse of the four houses dotting the sloping western side of the island, which forms a tight, protective C shape around the bay.

“It’s easier for the sailboats,” Ben explains.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Rey says, biting down on a smile. “The _sailboats_.”

“I’m going to fire up the car,” Ben says, draining the last of his coffee in a few fierce gulps. “Try not to get in too much trouble without me.”

Ben walks to the back of the ferry where his rather fine coupe is waiting, strapped to the metal ferry boat with what seems like alarming casualness. But maybe he has a dozen of those expensive, foreign cars. Maybe the risk is part of the appeal. He works in the stock market, after all.

Rey turns back, draining her mug and trying to guess which house is Ben’s. There’s an Italianate villa clinging to the far cliff, its roof gleaming like a copper penny. There’s a Neoclassical monstrosity that spreads out in all directions like an insect. There’s a sleek, modern looking home with large windows that are visible even from this distance for their glint. And there’s a wide roofed, weathered home that seems to blend in with the trees.

She turns to ask, but Ben’s focused intently on the car, his brown eyes checking over the tires and the straps battening it to the surface. In his traveling clothes, braced against the rocking boat with the spray in his face, he looks like a Brooks Brothers advertisement, and she _marvels_ that this man could be the same boy who she’d introduced to gin and stayed up all night trailing dark corners in their shared city.

This…pressed, formal man in a suit jacket looks like an entirely new person. She feels a wash of that same vague, indescribable sense of loss she’d felt the moment the nurse told her who _exactly_ she’d been running around with. It’s nothing to her, of course. But she still feels it.

Turning back to the island, she finds it has grown while she was distracted, swelling from an abstract concept to a real, looming formation. She feels faintly uneasy in a way she never does before the a new job. Even the big investigations she’s performed for members of the upper classes, cases that had involved tailing powerful, wealthy men into dimly lit brothels and opium dens, she hadn’t felt unsettled like this. Nervous, occasionally, but never uneasy in her own skin.

“Ben,” she calls, turning back to him.

But the sound of her call is lost in the roar of the surf and the revving of his engine as Ben tosses his head back and grins at her, looking for all the world like a cat who got the cream.

The feeling tapers off, calming and concentrating itself into her tapped foot, her long skirts bouncing against the fine leather of Ben’s open top car as they drive off the pier and onto the island’s only paved road.

As they drive up the coastline and begin to ascend, Rey can see the four houses dominating the coastline in its entirety, their pristine exteriors and manicured lawns sweeping down the hill to a small, pebbly beach. At the far end of the island, the beach tapers into a sliver at the base of a towering cliff, its face straight and dignified like a starched collar. White pleasure boats bob cheerfully in the island’s interior, brightly colored and expensive.

Ben, driving his car at what really is alarming speed, looks _almost_ carefree. He wears his hair just slightly longer than the fashion, and his traveling jacket is open at the neck, the breeze pushing his collar open.  

He looks away from the road to grin at her, and she leans over and pushes his face back to the road, shrieking as he lets the car swerve dangerously on the gravel and narrowly missing a topiary shaped like a lion framing a large iron gate.

“Ben _Solo,”_ she shrieks as they whirl past the gate, and Rey has just enough time to see the phrase _Dameron Downs_ engraved over the entrance. 

“That’s the Dameron place,” Ben says, his voice rising over the whipping wind. “We’ll go there this evening, I expect.”

They’re on the far tip of the island, and Rey has a glimpse of the decadent Mediterranean styled monstrosity perched on the western-most tip of the island. Even from this distance, she has a feeling that the Damerons throw a good party.

“Iron money, right?”

“Railway,” Ben corrects, “Though who knows, these days. They believe in diversifying, if you catch my meaning.”

Rey glances over at him, looking for any evidence of scorn on his face, but finds none. His eyes scan the road, and as they whip around a corner, he raises his arm to point at a pristine, white stone wall with a closed iron gate coming up.

“That’s Leon Snoke’s estate. One of them, anyway. New construction,” he adds, and _now_ she hears the note of contempt in his voice.

“My _god,_ ” Rey says, leaning her head out the window to get a glimpse of the palatial neo-classical building spreading down the hillside to the water.

Rey falls back into her seat as Ben yanks on the back of her overcoat, but she can’t even be annoyed at him for yanking on her. She’s almost _giddy._ Never one to read cheap novels or gossip rags, she is unprepared for how curious she is to see the island. Very few people outside of the elite circles ever get access here, and Rey’s going to be given the _grande tour_ for a few days. Her nervousness has burned off in her schoolgirl’s delight at being taken into a social world she’d never even dream of approaching without an insider.

“When the proletariat rise, you’re all going to be dragged into the streets,” Rey says.

Ben decelerates, throws her a crooked smile, and says, “I told you you’d hate it. Can't wait for you to meet them all.”

Rey glances down at her engagement ring, which is holding court on her left hand and flicking into brightness as the trees overhead let scattered sunlight through the sparse tree cover.

“Ah, right. We’re…engaged.”

As much as it’s a huge risk, the engagement pretense was really the best option. After seeing these houses, she can admit to that much.

“Don’t look so glum about it,” he says. “We’re supposed to be madly in love, remember? By the way, what should I call you?”

“Hm?”

“For a pet name.”

“Oh, whatever you usually go with. I’ve never had a nickname,” Rey says absently, twirling her ring. “Are you quite sure you want me wearing this thing? Someone’s probably going to cut my hand off to get it from me. It’s the size of a golf ball.”

Ben barks a humorless laugh, banking the car again as they turn down the winding road. Rey catches a glimpse of another set of grand gates that go whooshing past her. She cranes her neck, but they’re moving too fast.

“At this point, I trust you more than I’d trust a bank vault. Bank vault wouldn’t try and stab someone stealing from it.”

Rey feigns outrage. “I’ve never stabbed anyone.”

The car decelerates slightly as the trees begin thinning out. They must be nearly at the end of the island.

Ben smiles at her fondly. “Not yet you haven’t.”

And then they come to the end of the road and the last set of gates, which are old wrought iron, slightly salt stained and thrown open. Ben’s car slides smoothly through them, and then Rey is standing up again to get a better look at the house coming into view.

“What do you think?” Ben says, his eyes on her face again.

“Ben it’s _beautiful,_ ” Rey enthuses, gesturing at the low slung, clapboard house nestled on the hill. It’s older, built before the turn of the century, with a low hanging roof, narrow, leaded windows, and a wide porch. The clapboard sides are faintly weathered, but the garden and landscaping is pristine.

The result is a home that looks stately without resorting to the heavy handedness of grandeur. The driveway is long, twisting down between leafy trees interspersed with rocks, and behind the house the sea comes into glorious view.

“It’s harder to break into than your average mansion. Narrow windows,” she adds, trying to get a grip on her professionalism. Honestly. She feels about _sixteen_. “You grew up here?”

“Except for during the school year, all my life,” Ben says. And she can hear a note of undisguised fondness in his voice.

“Why have you kept away from it for so long?” Rey says, resuming her seat as Ben pulls the car smoothly into the circular driveway. Ben kills the engine, and in the ringing silence, she’s aware of an odd hesitation in his face. The house, large and stately, seems to peer down on them with its glittering windows and calling rooks.

“Work. You know. The usual,” Ben says, removing his driving gloves and shoving them into his pocket.

Before she can ask him anything else, he opens his car door and walks briskly to the trunk. Rey suddenly realizes that she’s about to meet his _mother_ and pulls a compact out of her bag, straightening her hair and removing her scarf before hopping down herself. Appearing with her suitcase at her side, Ben gives her an annoyed look.

“I’m supposed to do that,” he scolds.

“Do what?"

“Open your door.”

Rey blinks, glancing down at the shut door behind her. “Oh. Chivalry. I forgot.”

He’d never bothered holding a door for her when they were just colleagues.

Ben leans his head down, his dark eyes serious and his voice low.

“Remember, for the duration of our time on this island, I am madly in love with you, and you-”

Rey waves her hand in front of her face, irritated by his sudden closeness.

“Yes, yes, alright, I know. I’ll try to look… affianced.”

Ben scowls. “Don’t put yourself to too great of a strain, darling.”

“I changed my mind,” Rey says flatly.

Ben’s eyes flash. “Too late for that-”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “I mean about the pet name. Don’t call me darling.”

Ben rolls his eyes and moves back to the trunk. “What’s wrong with darling?”

“It’s so…precious. Can’t you call me, I don’t know, old sport or ace or-”

“You’re my fiancée, not my golf caddy,” Ben says, returning with his own bags and setting them at her feet.

Rey smooths her hair down. “Fine, then call me some other acceptable name.”

“Sweetheart it is,” Ben says, sighing in a very good imitation of a put-upon fiancé.

“That’s…acceptable,” Rey decides, closing her compact and shoving it into her pocket.

Ben looks like he’s about to reply when an _enormous_ dog comes loping out of the woods at top speed. He’s making a beeline for Ben, a blur of brown and tan, and when he reaches Ben the dog gets on two legs as if physically embracing him. Ben grunts on impact and nearly drops her valise as he struggles to hold the enormous animal up without falling physically backward.

Rey bursts out laughing, and at that point the dog notices her.

“Rey, meet Chewie. The family dog, and loyal hunting companion of-”

“Ben!” barks a rough voice from the trees. A smiling, weathered man in duck hunting clothes strides up the driveway to the car, a wide grin on his features. In one sweeping glance, he seems to assess the whole situation. This must be Han Solo, Ben’s father. Rey doesn’t know much about the man, just that he’s the reason Ben’s last name isn’t Skywalker and his marriage to Leia was considered something of a social mismatch.

Han’s gaze lands on Rey.

“Who’s the girl?” he says. And it _should_ be rude, but somehow it’s a bit charming. Rey smiles.

“Hello, dad,” Ben says. He sounds a touch formal to Rey’s ears, and she wonders if the upper classes are just a bit chillier with each other. Taking Rey’s hand and tugging her slightly closer, “This is my-”

“Is that my son?” calls a voice from the front doorway. All three of them snap their heads around to take in the slight, wiry woman in gardening clothes emerging the house. She’s shucking her gloves, her iron colored hair pulled back in a severe braid, but her eyes are soft and pleased.

“And you’ve brought a guest,” Leia says, crossing to them and wiping her hands on her apron. “How do you do, dear. So nice to meet a friend of Benjamin’s.”

She offers a polite hand for Rey to shake.

A cold sense of fear creeps up Rey’s spine, and she has the absurd impulse to hide the enormous diamond on her hand from view.

“Ben,” Rey whispers. “Didn’t you tell them?”

Shaking Rey’s hand, which has dropped a few degrees in temperature, Leia’s eyes flit between her son and her husband.

Ben clears his throat, perhaps sensing the land mine they’ve just waltzed into.

“Mother, father,” Ben says, wrapping his arm around Rey’s waist. “This is Rey Kenobi, my fiancée.”

Leia puts a hand to her mouth. Han stands there, absolutely motionless. For a second, apart from the distant crashing of water and the call of seagulls, there’s absolute silence. Chewie starts to whine.

Visions of how the next ten minutes will go flash before Rey’s eyes. They know who she is. They know the whole thing’s a fraud. Rey will be plopped on the next boat to leave and Ben will stand on the dock, shrugging helplessly-

“Good grief, Ben,” Leia says, “You might have _wired_ me.”

Han starts to laugh, pulling his son into a rough hug as Leia quickly smooths her hair back and gives Rey a genuine, heartfelt smile. Then Han pulls Rey into a rough hug of her own, and Leia hugs Rey too, and the sound of their stunned laughter echoes around the ivy-lined walls like the peal of bells.

Leia crosses to her son and embraces him, giving his back a light smack as she scolds, “I have _one_ son, Benjamin. One. You might have at least done this one thing correctly. For god’s sakes, we didn’t object to the gallivanting around the city chasing criminals, nor the harebrained financial processes, but a _daughter in law,_ Ben-”

“Yes, mother,” Ben says. “I apologize, it just happened so fast. Let me introduce-”

“Gracious I haven’t even looked at her, Rey, you darling girl, come here, let me look at you,” Leia says breathily, reaching for Rey’s hand.

With the eye of a museum inspector, Leia gives Rey a thorough once over.

“You’re lovely,” Leia informs her. Firmly. Like there’s no question. “Yes, I’m sure this will be quite fine. Well, there we are, an unexpected but very pleasant development.”

Han’s gruff voice chimes in, “I’ll get a good bottle of whiskey. We ought to celebrate.”

Leia adds, “We’ll need to add more lamb to the stew. And the _roast._ Benjamin, why you didn’t _wire_ me I’ll never understand-”

“And fireworks,” exclaims Han, rubbing his hands together.

“Han, _no_ ,” says Leia emphatically.

Han winks at Leia and mouths the word _yes_ over his wife’s head.

Leia, taking Rey by the arm, walks them firmly towards the house. “Rey, you’ll stay in the blue bedroom, obviously. _Threepio,_ have the car put back and take Miss Kenobi’s bags upstairs,” she says to a tall man in a suit jacket. “And we’ll need four place settings this evening, so be sure to let cook know. The good china, thank you.”

“I’ve got the bags,” Ben says firmly to the butler. “I’ll take them. Mother, wouldn’t it be better to put Rey in the lavender room? The view is far superior.”

They walk up to the front porch, and the butler holds the door open for them as they stride into a paneled foyer, with narrow, latticed windows above the door and rich paneling lined with family photos and portraits.

“Benjamin Solo,” Leia says severely, turning to her son. “I’m sure you’re not suggesting I house your fiancée, a woman I met five minutes ago but who seems perfectly decent in all respects, in the bedroom just next to yours? Because I believe I raised you better than that. Really, Rey, are you sure you want to marry him?”

“Mother,” says Ben, exasperated.

“And where on earth is Han?” Leia says, ignoring her son entirely.

Leia and Ben lock eyes, and then as one, they both say, “Fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” Rey repeats.

“He’ll want to let the neighbors know Ben’s home,” Leia says, as if this in any way clarifies the matter. Leia lets Rey’s arm drop to throw her hands up. “Honestly, Ben, for the amount of chaos you’ve caused we might as well have a _barn dance.”_

“Father might not object,” Ben mutters.

“I’m ignoring that,” Leia says, pointing a threatening finger at her son. “Ben, be a good son and track down your father before he terrorizes our poor neighbors with a daytime fireworks display. Snoke has a heart murmur, and I’d like to live to see my grandchildren.”

Ben gazes with affectionate patience on his mother.

“Of course, mother. I really am sorry, I ought to have called you.”

Leia appears mollified, and strides up to her son. Reaching up a weathered, gentle hand, she pats Ben’s face gently and smiles.

“Be good,” she says fondly. “Well, go on.”

“I’ll be back,” Ben says to Rey. Promises. She doesn’t give him a pleading glance, or even a reproachful one. Privately, Rey thinks it’s a good opportunity to get the lay of the land. Perhaps, without Ben and whatever baggage he carries around with him, his mother will provide her with some useful information.

And then, with almost military precision, he turns around and strides out the front door, leaving her alone with Ben’s mother.

“Well, that was amusing,” she says, slightly breathless. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Rey, marrying our boy.”

Leia’s bright, assessing blue eyes tell Rey that lying to her would do no good.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the first idea,” she admits.

Leia barks a quick, friendly laugh, but sobers slightly, her eyes flitting to Rey’s suitcase on the floor.

“I’m afraid you’re in for a time. It’s quite a public thing, marrying a Skywalker,” Leia sighs. “I know we’ve just met, but you seem… well, I suppose I shouldn’t even comment until we’ve gotten to be better acquainted.”

Not sure _what_ to say to that vague assessment, Rey tries for a smile. It comes out wooden. _Christ, she’s no good at this._

“You have a lovely home,” Rey manages.

Leia smiles with somewhat casual pleasure, gesturing around at the dark wood paneling and the stained-glass window letting in watery green light. “Well, it’s certainly a place to rest one’s bones. Feels a bit like living in a jewelry box, but it was my mother’s design, and I couldn’t bear to change it.”

Padmé Amidala. The famous suffragette.

Leia appears not to notice Rey’s suddenly mawkish, starstruck expression.

“I’m going to put you upstairs, Rey, in the front room. It gets the best sunlight,” she says, and sweeps past her to the stairs. “Oh, leave your bags, dear. The butler will handle it for you.”

Feeling it would be rude to argue and wondering if she’ll ever have charge of her own luggage again, Rey hesitates. She wouldn’t dream of leaving her belongings unattended in New York, not even with a porter unless she could keep an eye on him. But it would be rude to disobey her, so Rey simply steps past them, jogging lightly to catch up as Leia ascends the stairs. She is _quite_ agile for a woman of her age.

“I apologize for our state of disarray. It’s just that we weren’t expecting to be welcoming a future daughter in law, or I would have had fresh flowers in your room. You certainly deserve them.”

They crest the stairs and turn down a long hallway lined with doors.

“It’s no trouble,” Rey murmurs, distracted by the art lining the walls. Dozens and dozens of framed art pieces take up every space not occupied by a door or window.

“What a _beautiful_ collection,” Rey breathes, stunned.

Leia smiles. “My mother, again. The Dameron collection is a much more modern, of course. We Skywalkers are a bit stuck in the past.”

“I don’t favor the modernists,” Rey says, leaning close to a rather fine preparatory sketch that reminds her of a fresco she’d seen in a Romanesque church in the south of France. “Give me an old master any day.”

The piece is unsigned, the frame simple, but Rey’s guessing it’s the Sienese school, or at least one of the old masters in northern Italy, for sure. Not her strongest area of knowledge, and of course the color is what would truly reveal its origin, but still. She has a strong feeling about it.

“Cozzarelli?” Rey guesses.

Leia’s eyebrows rise. “Matteo di Giovanni.”

“Ah, of course,” Rey mutters, taking a step back.

“Easy mistake,” Leia says mildly. “You’re a student of fine art?”

Rey blinks, remembering that she’s supposed to be a secretary in Ben’s office.

“An amateur,” Rey says, trying to sound demure and shy.

Leia nods. “Nice to see young people appreciating the arts.”

“Ben and I have that in common,” Rey says quietly.

“I’m glad. Strong relationships are built on community of interest as much as financial security and family background. That’s why Han and I get along so well.”

Rey feels something in her brain _click_ slightly, and she has an odd urge to pull out a notebook and take notes. But Leia turns briskly down the hallway and continues to walk, and Rey can only trail after her.

They come to the end of the hallway and Leia opens a door, revealing a bright, airy bedroom that kills her follow up question about what _else_ makes for successful relationships stone dead. The room is light and airy, with two narrow windows that open out onto a view of the sea. Stripes of friendly daylight illuminate an old-fashioned bed with a blue quilt, a cozy reading chair, and a faintly dusty vanity.

Leia crosses to the window and unlatches the catch, letting in a soft breeze that seems to shimmer in the light. “There. We’ll air it out a bit. Of course, if Ben doesn’t manage to stop Han with those damnable fireworks, the entire island will know about it within an hour of his own parents learning.”

Feeling vaguely guilty, Rey clears her throat. “I’m so sorry, I thought he mentioned it to you.”

Leia sighs. “Ben always enjoyed doing things his own way. But, there we are, it’s only a bit of a shock. Good for the constitution. We’ll be having a light supper in about an hour, and please don’t worry about dressing for it. It’s entirely a come-as-you-are sort of affair.”

Leia moves to leave, but Rey can’t resist asking one more question.

“What’s the story with the fireworks?”

Leia turns around, her gaze exasperated. “Oh, _that._ It’s this horrible tradition. Ever since Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee celebrations, fireworks have been all the rage around here. Han’s _mad_ for them, and now instead of ringing the bell tower like a civilized person, he launches fireworks off the dock and terrorizes the waterfowl.”

Rey stares, not comprehending. “He…lights fireworks at ducks?”

“No, dear,” Leia says, patting Rey’s hand with motherly affection. “He sets them off when we’ve wonderful news to share.”

At that moment, they hear a thunderous _boom_. Rey and Leia whip around, crossing to the window in time to see a bright burst of colorful green lights exploding in the early evening sky. The green sparkles arc high in the sky, scattering their brightness on the skyline and reflecting their burning glory on the rolling water of the bay.

“For heaven’s sakes,” Leia sighs. “It isn’t even dark out.”

The whole island will know. She thought Ben’s family would be tight lipped and formal. She thought she’d have time to do a preliminary survey of the house before making her formal introduction. She _thought_ she’d have control of this investigation.

But, as with every job she’s ever taken with Ben Solo, things are rapidly accelerating.

“Isn’t this a bit…conspicuous?” Rey says, feeling short of breath.

Leia gives Rey a smile that is just a little sly.

“Oh, darling. It’s 1922. Conspicuous is the name of the game.”

* * *

 

Dinner is a simple meal served on very fine china. Rey lifts the glass to her lips and sips it delicately as Ben attempts to explain their engagement to his parents, who are looking on with slightly nervous curiosity.

“We used to be colleagues,” Ben explains, his tone conveying an admirable blandness. Like he’s told this story a hundred times.

“I was a clerk at his office,” Rey offers, drawing on the story they’d cobbled together.

“Ah, one of those working girls,” Han says, eyes twinkling.  

“She always had a flame for me,” Ben declares.

“I didn’t,” Rey interjects, slightly defensive of her assumed lack professionalism.

“Ah, but what about all those late nights you stayed to help me with my work?”

“Doing my _job_ isn’t the same as flirting,” Rey counters. “And even if it was, it would have been very wrong of you to encourage it.”

Leia sets her fork down. “But you haven’t worked in a law office in years, Ben. How did you reconnect?”

“Ran into her at the library,” Ben says breezily.

“Yes, the library.”

“What book were you looking for?” Leia says to Rey, her eyes bright and attentive. “I always find that to be a telling statement.”

Rey blinks, taken aback at the specificity. She hadn’t got a lie handy, so she reaches for the last book she read.

“A book about Renaissance Masters,” Rey blurts.

Han grins. “Oh, she’s artistic.”

There’s a faint hint of the sarcastic to everything he says, Rey notices, but he doesn’t put any real heart or malice behind it. Rey lightly spears a piece of asparagus and chews it thoughtfully.

“Rey’s quite literate. She’s far superior to me in most types of academic knowledge,” Ben says.

“Your strengths lie more in the applied sciences, I’d say,” Leia says coolly.

His lips twitch. “Of course.”

Han cuts in. “What I want to know is how you managed to get engaged without one of these gossipy islanders bringing it to our door before you showed up. News travels faster than light around these parts. Half the time I learn about my neighbors in the newspaper.”

Ben and Rey make quick eye contact.

“Spur of the moment decision. We only got engaged, what was it, sweetheart?”

_Applied sciences indeed._

 “Three days ago,” Rey supplies.

 “You still could have cabled,” Han says dryly. “And we do have a telephone, you know.”

Ben waves his hand in the air. “New York lines are so unreliable.”

“Nothing your mother loves more than the surprise engagement of her only son,” Han says, giving Rey the faintest suggestion of a wink as he takes a large bite of his steak.

Ben sets his glass down with a sigh. “Alright, mother, father, I apologize for not calling you at the time of my engagement.”

He meets Rey’s glance, and in the ensuing silence he appears to correctly interpret her slightly pursed lips.

“It was rotten,” he adds.

Rey holds his gaze and arches one brow.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he adds, sounding slightly confused.

Leia inhales slowly and lets it out. “Well, thank you, Ben. I am looking forward to the wedding very much. It’s good you’re here, incidentally,” she says, her expression hardening. “We can get a jump on planning.”

“The wedding?”

It slips out before she can stop it. But something about those two words sends a thrill of nervousness up her spine. It was all fine and well to fake an engagement, but she’s only just realizing that they’re going to be expected to have a wedding. Plan one, even.

Leia dabs her mouth with her napkin.

“Yes, we ought to set down to brass tacks.”

“Mother?” Ben says, sounding exasperated.

“The _wedding,_ Benjamin. Or did you intended to merely remain engaged for the rest of your lives? No, thank you, we’ll begin planning at once. Of course, the most pressing matter of business is the engagement cards, and we’ll need to have a dinner. No, scratch that, let’s have a proper reception. After all,” she demurs,” you’re _so_ terribly busy, Benjamin dear, that we should get the immediate necessaries out of the way. Rey, dear, do you prefer an evening reception or a garden party? Of course a garden party is more traditional, but the young people are somewhat nocturnal here.”

“ _Mother,_ ” Ben interjects.

“Oh, gracious, what am I saying. Rey, has your family announced the engagement yet? I know traditionally it’s the bride’s family who announces first,” she says, as if she’s made some grave social error.

Rey smooths the napkin in her lap. “I’m afraid my parents have both passed away.”

A moment passes, and Rey winces inwardly at having been the cause of an awkward lull in the conversation. But no one looks uncomfortable. Leia leans slightly toward her, and very kindly takes her hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“The war, was it?”

“Influenza,” Rey says. It’s a common enough story that it doesn’t bear repeating, so Rey holds her silence.  

“I lost my parents young as well,” Leia says. “And Han’s lost his too.”

Gruffly, Han says, “It’s a house full of orphans.”

“Except for Ben,” Rey says, trying not to sound envious.

Leia surprises Rey by smiling.

“You know, I think part of the reason I’m so thrilled to be planning this wedding is that I appreciate that I _get_ to. My own mother had passed before Han and I married, and you know, it’s a treat just to be here. I can’t tell you,” Leia says warmly, turning her kind face to Rey, “how happy I am . And I know we’ve only just met you, Rey, but I’m so grateful to you for agreeing to join the circus that is our little family.”

A gut-wrenching pang of guilt throbs in Rey’s stomach. Across the table, Ben meets her eyes. There’s something faintly entreating in his gaze, like he’s begging her not to judge him too harshly.

Rey swallows and squeezes Leia’s hand. “Thank you for being so wonderfully welcoming.”

“We should celebrate,” Leia says firmly.

“I already set off the fireworks.”

“Celebrate _properly,_ ” Leia scolds.

“Oh, right, the whiskey,” Han declares. “Rey, will you have a spot?”

“Gin,” Ben interjects. “Rey prefers gin.”

“Whiskey would be fine,” Rey cuts in pointedly, frowning at Ben.

“Gin!” Han says approvingly. “I’ve got gin. How do you take it?”

“Neat, with a little water and pepper,” Rey admits sheepishly.

“I meant that we must have an engagement dinner,” Leia says firmly. “I know a luncheon is traditional-“

Ben makes a gagging noise.

“I quite agree. Luncheons are so tedious. The heat and the insects. No, a dinner party, that’s what we want. Han, can you call the mainland tomorrow and see about getting a band out here? I won’t have tinny, gramophone foxtrots; this is an _occasion._ ”

Rey shifts in her seat, “Please don’t go to any trouble-”

“Mother, this isn’t-”

“It’s entirely necessary,” Leia says firmly. “If we’re going to have a wedding, we may as well do it properly. And you, young man, have several years of general debauchery to make up for, so no lectures from you please on the proper way to have a wedding.”

 _That_ shuts Ben up, and Rey finds herself fighting off the impulse to snicker into her napkin. Han sets a large tumbler of gin next to her and gives her a commiserating look.

Pulling out a small notebook and sliding a pair of reading glasses onto her nose, Leia resumes her point with perfect, finishing-school enunciation.

“Now, Rey, since you have no family to make the formal announcement of the engagement, the honor falls to us. We can set up tomorrow at breakfast and write a few notes to announce it.”

Han chuckles, “Good god, Leia, everyone knows already.”

Leia sniffs. “Your little stunt with the fireworks saw to that. Most inelegant. Half the island will be ‘round the house before we can even get the notices delivered.”

As if on cue, door to the dining room opens and the butler with the strange name enters.

“M’am, Mr. Dameron is in the front hall.”

“Kes or Poe?” Han says.

“The younger Dameron. Something about … fireworks? He’s _very_ excited-”

At that moment a dark haired man of about thirty pushes into the room with an uttered, “For god’s sakes, Threepio, it’s only me.”

“ _Sir,”_ the butler protests, but Dameron the Younger pays him no mind.

“Good evening, Solos! Leia, you look ravishing,”

Leia is immediately on her feet, her arms outstretched.

“Poe, good to see you. I suppose you saw the fireworks.”

“Half the continent saw them,” Poe says. “Mr. Solo, where on earth did you get them? They’re bigger than last year’s by far. What’s the news?”

Han, already walking back to the sideboard to pour a drink for the newcomer, gestures grandly at Rey.

Poe blinks.

“ _Hello_ , I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you there,” he exclaims. With a gallant dip of his head, he crosses to Rey and drops into the seat next to hers. “Poe Dameron, pleasure to meet you.”

“Of Dameron Downs?” Rey guesses.

“Spot on.”

Rey beams, pleased at connecting a dot. “I’m Rey Kenobi.”

“How do you do? How do you know the family? Good to see you, by the way, Ben,” Poe says affably.

Han sets a glass in front of Poe and says, “Get ready for this.”

“Rey and I have just announced our engagement,” Ben says coolly.

Poe blinks, his eyes flitting between Rey, Ben, Han and Leia like he’s not sure where to land.

Finally, his voice a little strangled, he manages, “Good god, man, couldn’t you have cabled me?”

Ben shifts. “It was rather sudden.”

“I’ll say,” Poe says reproachfully. “You never mentioned you had a girl the last time you visited.”

“That was last summer,” Ben interjects.

“I’m in the phone book, for crying out loud,” Poe exclaims. “Well, there’s nothing for it, I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.”

“What?” Ben says warily.

Poe turns his dark eyes to Rey, his expression mournful. “I’m going to have to give you both a fabulous engagement party.”

Rey grins. Ben smiles, but it lacks a certain…something. He doesn’t look pleased.

“Thank you, Poe, how kind,” he manages.

Rey turns back to Poe and repeats the sentiment.

Poe shakes his head. “No trouble, no trouble. If you’d given me some warning, I could have planned it for tonight like a civilized person, but _no,_ you just had to drop your stunning fiancée in my lap with no warning-”

“Poe,” Ben snaps.

Poe ignores this. “-and now she’s going to have to meet _everyone_ tonight with nothing prepared. We all gathered for dinner, and even Hux showed his face. He’s still there. Couldn’t you have spared the poor girl?”

“Armitage Hux?” Rey guesses.

Poe points at her. “And she’s _smart.”_

“We needn’t go to come over tonight,” Ben says firmly.

Poe frowns. “You do if you don’t want half the island showing up at your door dead drunk this evening, wondering what on earth the fireworks were about.”

Leia interjects. “Ben, be civil. There’s no sense sitting around the house. You know your father and I will only be here reading, and you two young people should go and amuse yourselves. The summer’s almost over, you know.”

Poe beams. “Right as always, Leia. And you’re both invited to come sailing tomorrow, of course.”

“We’ve got plans,” Ben says firmly, at the exact moment that Rey says, “Oh, I _love_ sailing.”

Ben turns his head to look at her, and she can’t help the entreaty she sends his way.

Placing a hand on his cuff and tilting her head slightly, she pulls out her most charming smile.

“Darling, couldn’t we cancel our plans tomorrow? You know I love boat excursions.”

Ben blinks at her and then turns to Poe, his voice a little hoarse.

“We should be delighted,” he says.

“Good,” Poe says. “Then we’ll expect you after dinner. Rey, lovely to meet you.”

Then he gives them all a little bow, gallant as a lord, and saunters out.

Leia takes a sip of her wine and raises her eyebrows slightly as silence settles on the table again.

“I have a feeling,” Ben says slowly, “that I handled this whole thing rather badly.”

Rey snorts into her wine glass and pointedly refrains from commenting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this CHONK of a chapter. I like to get the groundwork exposition all out in one go, and I'm prone to long chapters anyway. Did I mention I don't have a beta. I'm BAD at things, okay? 
> 
> I am indebted to this incredible Jazz age etiquette guide for all the social protocol in this book, which you can (and SHOULD) read [here!](https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=wu.89098851561;view=1up;seq=311)
> 
> I'd love to have you join me on [my Tumblr!](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) In the wake of Tumblr's sort of insane ban on nudity, I'd especially appreciate it if you followed me on [my Twitter,](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites) which is where I'm most active these days. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated if you're enjoying my work and want to help me out!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SORRY ABOUT THE TYPOS I'LL GET THEM LATER BUT I HAD TO GET THIS UP TODAY IT WAS DRIVING ME BONKERS]

 

* * *

   

 Weave me a robe of richer fibre;

Pattern its web with a rare device:

Give away to the child of a neighbor

This gold gown I was glad in twice.

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay. “Three Songs from ‘The Lamp and the Bell’” (1917)_

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Rey returns to her room to dress for the engagement at Poe’s place by the light of her bedroom's only lamp.

She opts for a black dress on the casual side of acceptable evening wear, high at the neck and sleeveless. It has one of those terrible, fussy clasps that takes a small team of tactical specialists to do up, but she’s always loved the finished effect. In the half-light of her bedroom, the beaded trim glints softly. It feels glamorous and modern, and she wonders if this is how Ben always feels in his fine clothing. 

Fixing her hair back with a few strategic pins, Rey considers the state of thing.

Ben, of course, and the casual way he treated his parents. Ben and his parents’ beautiful home. The ride on the ferry over from the island. The sense of total, overwhelming distinctness between here and there. It’s strange, how something as insignificant as a few miles of open water can change the entire culture of a group of people. The island effect, she thinks that’s called. Rey muses about native finch populations, but guesses that the residents of Millenium Island might be better compared to sleek, darting falcons.

She’s curious to meet Ben’s peers. Poe's home was the first to be burglarized; they'd taken two rather fine Monet pieces if her memory serves. 

Turning her head right and left in the mirror, she decides her hair is good enough for a casual evening, and sets about applying a thin coat of lipstick to her mouth. The action requires the steady hand and the intense concentration of a marksman, so she doesn’t notice Ben in the doorway until the color has saturated her mouth.

“Are you ready?” he says. 

Rey turns her head sharply, setting down the lipstick on the cluttered vanity with a clatter. He looks very dashing in his sharp, tailored jacket and a red carnation in his lapel, he eyes her speculatively. His hair is pushed back at the temples, and Rey is reminded, oddly, of a panther.

“You startled me,” she says, grinning at him and gesturing to the back of her dress. “But you’re just in time. Help me with this, will you?”

Ben makes no move to come to her, just lingers in the doorway with his eyes running down the length of her body.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your ankles,” he says quietly.

“Have I suitably scandalized you?” Rey says, kicking her feet up a little.

“Pleasantly. You used to only wear trousers when we were working. And your librarian skirts.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Rey starts straightening the the vanity top, capping her ink and sliding her pen into its velvet case.

“Yes, and you dressed like an overgrown paper boy, as I recall.”

It’s strange, thinking of those days when he was barely grown, his body lanky and his steps ungainly and eager. Confronted as she is now by the grown man, seasoned and dark in his fine evening clothes, the contrast couldn’t be more striking.

“I liked your librarian skirts, too, you know,” Ben murmurs. “I hope you haven’t dressed up on my account.”

Rey gives him a sardonic smile. “I could say the same of you.”

His lips twitch. “What do you mean?”

“Just that you- you look,” she murmurs, gesturing at the whole of him. Dark and tall. Confident.

“What, Rey?”

“Oh, come off it, Ben, and help me with this top button, will you?” Rey mutters, gesturing at the back of her neck where the top of the dress closes on a pearl button.

“Fine, but I'd like it noted on the record that I, Benjamin Solo, am officially better at one thing than you.”

“ _Ben_.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, crossing to her vanity and coming to stand behind her. In the mirror, she has the impression of his broad shoulders, the confident movement of his hands. Rey reaches behind her, tugging her dark hair out of his way as he bends his head to the task. She can feel the faint warmth of his breath, can smell the minty fragrance of his aftershave. 

The moment seems to take a long time. In ten years, she can’t remember anyone getting this close to her neck. But his hands are steady, and he deftly adjusts the closure for a few moments, his hands never once touching her skin.

And then, with a little _snap_ , the closure is fastened.

“There,” he says. “You’re decent.”

When she turns around to look up at him, his hands are shoved firmly in his pockets, his eyes on his feet. Rey brings a hand up to run her fingers across the beading at the neckline.

“Think I’ll fit in?”

“Beautifully,” he says, not looking at her.

Rey rises to her feet, the material of her dress moving silkily against her mid calf. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Ben looks startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, they’re your friends, I just wanted to give you one more chance to call this off. If you had reservations,” she demurs, trailing off. She doesn't _want_ him to accept her offer, but it feels important that she make it. That he has one last opportunity to minimize the damage.

“I didn’t beg you on bended knee to help me on this only to back down before we begin work,” he says, a touch acidly.

Rey shrugs. “I know. But I’m not from your world. It’s a night and day difference between your crowd and mine, and they might- I mean, they might know.”

The light throws his face into soft shadow, the single lamp giving him something of a silent film star’s air. A man like Ben was made for this kind of light. For this kind of suit. Rey clears her throat, and adds, “After all, it’s only work.”

Ben looks at her, really looks at her, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“You’re the day,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “You’re the sun. I'm not worried.”

Rey’s lips part. “Ben-”

He grins. “Your name, I mean. It’s like the sun. You’ll dazzle them. Don't worry. I’m going to fetch the car. Meet me downstairs.”

And then he walks out, leaving her alone in her pretty little room, the single lamp beating back the darkness.

* * *

Riding along the main road in Ben’s open top car is an entirely different experience at night.

They clear the trees that forest Ben’s side of the island, and then the open sky is spread above them like a velvet shroud scattered with glittering stars. The moon seems to hang in the sky, and Rey stares up at it as they race along the road. On either side of them, the open ocean rolls, spraying a salty tang into the air. It's so sharp and so beautiful that it makes something in her heart ache. 

But Poe’s house, appearing ahead of them at the far end of the road, is a decidedly  _earthly_ revelation. Illuminated by electric lights peppered throughout the hilly cliffside, his house looks like a gigantic, bejeweled bird. The copper rooftop reflects the blue moonlight so that the whole thing radiates an indigo shine.

“Oh,” Rey croons as Ben turns down the wide, curving driveway home. “It’s so beautiful.”  

“What happened to your good socialist morals, Kenobi?” he says cheerfully. 

Rey smooths her hair and tries to look expensive.

“What happened to _sweetheart?_ ” she counters. 

Ben laughs, and then he’s driving the car through a porte-cochere and into a large courtyard lit up by glittering electric lights. It reminds Rey of a hybrid between a Parisian café and a Mediterranean villa.

Ben turns the car off, and in the ringing silence she can hear the faint strains of a distant gramophone playing a song and the ringing of the surf breaking on the cliffs.

“Good _lord,_ ” Rey says, pointing at the lights.

Ben just smirks at her.

A set of double doors swings open, and Poe Dameron, dressed in an elaborately embroidered dressing gown and silk pajama pants, stands in the glow of a hundred candles.

“Ah, there you are. Well, don't just stand there, come in, everyone’s dying to see you,” he says.

Ben gives her a quick, pointed look, and Rey dutifully waits to be released from the car. She even takes his proffered hand when he opens her door with a muttered “Just this once.”

He grins at her, putting his palm on her lower back. Through the thin material of her dress, she can feel the exact location of each of his fingers.

Poe watches them, looking pleased.  

“It’s just a small party, of course. Just the usual suspects. The real party is yet to come; and I mean to have _everyone_.”

He gives Rey a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, and Rey doesn’t understand _why_ it works, but it does. Probably the pajamas.

“What’s the point of having a mansion by the sea if you don’t throw a party every so often,” Poe says, gesturing at the house. “And besides, now we have an excuse in the form of your lovely bride-to-be.”

“You already had this put together before we even arrived,” Ben points out.

Rey elbows him. “Don’t be _rude._ ”

Poe laughs. “Listen to your fiancée, Benjamin.”

Rey startles at the address, and Poe’s eyes flick to her face.

“Sorry,” Rey says, laughing slightly, “I’m still not used to it.”

Ben’s hand curls slightly at her waist, wrapping around her hip.

They walk into the house as Poe says, “Well, you only get engaged once, so you may as well do the thing in style.”

The front foyer is lit by an iron candelabra filled with real candles that send off shivering clouds of smoke. An acrid, sweet smell fills the air, and Rey glances quickly at Poe as he leads them through the foyer and into a sumptuous living room. She’s been to enough rich-boy opium dens to know the smell without being told what it is, and she’s tried it enough times to understand the appeal. 

The living room gives way to what looks like a patio door, and Poe pulls the glass doors open to release a small tide of thick, purplish smoke. With a grin, Poe disappears into it, and Rey and Ben follow wordlessly. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust to the murky, purple smoke, but when they do, Rey's eyes go wide.  

In front of them, half a dozen young people recline on a Moroccan rug, glass lanterns tinted in shades of rich purples, blues and green hang from a gilded ceiling dimmed at the edges by smoke. Silk cushions in piles form small mountains on the ground, the glossy fabric reflecting the candlelight with a radiant sheen.

“Oh,” chirps a voice. A young woman emerges from the haze, glossy black hair framing a round, kind face. “Finn, she’s here.”

A man sits up next to her, his dark skin glossy under light of a lantern. The man, Finn, sets down a cigarette in a gilt ashtray and turns his wide eyes to Rey.

“Oh, she’s pretty,” he says drowsily. “Good.”

“Ben, you horror, why didn’t you write us?” the young woman is saying, leaning over a pale, dissipated young man with his head in the lap of a stunning blonde eyeing Rey up and down.

“Because he was too busy getting up to no good in New York,” purrs the blonde.

Poe claps his hands. “Alright, wastrels, make room for our guests. Don’t be rude. Share. This Rose, Finn, Phasma, and Hux. Everyone, you remember Ben. And this is Rey, his fiancee."

Poe, lighting the end of a long cigar, gestures for Rey and Ben to come all the way in. Ben rolls his eyes, taking Rey’s hand and walking slowly around the bodies on the floor to an elaborately embroidered couch in the corner. “You’re going to give her the wrong idea about us.”

“Don’t be a stuffed shirt, Benjamin,” Finn says, giggling.

“He _is_ a stuffed shirt. Wall street boy that he is.”

The pale man stirs. “Tell me that’s not Ben Solo.”

“And his _fiancée,_ ” the blonde adds, as if Poe hasn't just explained this. 

“Do sit,” calls Poe, moving to a divan in the corner and propping his feet up. “I get tired just looking at you. So aggressively _sober_.”

Somewhat drunkenly, Rose points at the other chair and says, “A throne for the king!”

“My kingdom for a horse!” Poe shouts.

Hux, his voice drawling, snarks, “I didn’t know you knew how to read,” Hux says acidly.

“Eaton doesn’t have a monopoly literacy,” Rose says tartly. “Even if we poor mortals were merely educated in Manhattan.”

“Speaking of England,” cuts in the blonde, “is that vicomte going to come on Friday? I need a bit of a challenge, and one likes to keep one’s claws sharp.”

“I’ve got no idea about Lord Worley, Phasma old girl."

“Nobles are so _boring,_ ” Rose moans. “Do you have to invite them?”

Poe takes a long drag on his cigar, puffing luxuriously before replying. Ben seats himself on the couch, crossing one leg over the other with an expression of perfect ease on his face. Rey marvels at his ability to comfortably take up so much _space._

“Yes, I do. It’s a kindness to the poor dears. Their lives are so hard, I consider it charity to do something for them.”

“And if they _happen_ to invest in your business?” Ben says.

Poe gives him a feral smile. “I’d forgotten how unpleasant you are when you’re sexually frustrated. Rey, do us all a kindness and kindly sit next to your fiancé. He’s making rude noises with his mouth and I suspect if he had your lovely neck in his direct view-”

Leaning over, Ben gives Poe’s divan a strong _kick_ with one booted foot, and Poe bursts into raucous, intoxicated laughter as the chair lurches to one side.

“No shoving!” Rose interjects. “Absolutely no _brawling_ in the Moroccan room. It’s forbidden.”

“Remind me why I'm not allowed to brawl in my own opium terrace?” Poe says archly.

Rose points at the lantern hanging dangerously close to her forehead. “The lanterns. They’re authentic Spanish Moroccan. Honestly, Poe, why your family had the place built if you had no intention to care for it-”

Finn sits up slightly and stage-whispers to Rey, “Rose is our art historian, we’re very proud of her.”

Rey, still standing in the corner watching this drama unfold in front of her, feels a soft tug on her hand. Ben’s gaze is liquid through the smoke.

“Sit,” he murmurs. And it takes Rey a minute to realize he means…sit with _him._

Making an executive decision, Rey folds herself into a seated position on the ground, leaning her head against his knee in what she hopes is a sweet, freshly-engaged sort of way. It feels strange, touching him like this. They’d always kept their relationship friendly but professional, never exchanging so much as a brush of the hand unless absolutely necessary. Now, thrust into the pretense of a longstanding and passionate affection, the contact is…strange.

Poe grins at her. “Fine, fine, but you’ll soon learn we’re entirely amoral people when we young people are alone, and we’ve got little patience for ceremony.”

“Good god, man, stop talking,” snarls Hux from Phasma’s lap.

“Someone get Hux another drink,” Phasma says acidly. “He’s becoming unpleasant.”

“I’m always unpleasant,” Hux says unsteadily. “Isn’t that my reputation?”

“Yes,” says everyone flatly. 

Finn rolls onto his stomach and rests his head in his palms, his eyes glassy. “So, Rey, are you very much in love?”

“I love love,” says Rose, leaning her head on Finn’s shoulder. “Tell us all about it.”

Rey clears her throat. “Ben and I are old friends.”

“Right, but what do you like about him?” Rose says. 

“Oh, _god,_ ” Hux says, sounding like he’s in physical pain.

Rey leans back against the chair, and glances up at Ben. He’s studiously inspecting the embroidery on his arm rest.

“He’s…” Rey trails off. What _does_ she like about Ben? What about him would make someone fall in love with him? Or, more specifically, what should she _say_ that would make it seem like she’s in love with him? The silence stretches. It feels like there are an infinite number of options, and yet not one forms itself into a usable sentence. She just stares at him.  

“She’s shy,” Poe exclaims, like he’s just made a fascinating discovery.

“Well that isn’t going to work,” Finn murmurs.

Poe gets to his feet. “One cure for shyness, coming up.”

“Gin?” Rey says hopefully, relieved at the turn in the conversation.

“Something _stronger,_ ” Poe says.

“What’s stronger than gin? Straight gasoline?” Ben mutters.

“Absinthe,” Phasma says, dragging the word out luxuriously. “Poe’s got the good stuff.”

Rey sits up. She’s never had absinthe. When Prohibition began, her countrymen were perfectly content to open their own distilleries in secret, but absinthe is hard to make in a poorly ventilated Chicago warehouse. Poe must have a connection to an import agent somewhere.   

One glass of pale green liquid later and Rey feels like someone has loosened every muscle in her body, and the lights of the lanterns swim blurrily in front of her eyes. Not drunk, but pleasantly tipsy, she leans her head against Ben’s knee with a degree less stiffness. 

“You have warm knees,” she murmurs.

Ben chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Rey frowns. “Tipsy?”

“No,” he says. “Cozy.”

“Maybe it's because I’ve never been this close to your knees."

Across the room, Poe snorts, and then Finn is laughing, and even Hux begins to chortle as Rey catches her own innuendo.

Ben puts a hand on her head and messes up her hair, and Rey squawks in a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. Ben pulls out a fresh cigarette, grinning around the smoke. 

“Alright, alight,” Rey concedes.

“I want to hear the story,” Rose says. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Rey blows out a long breath. “What was the question?”

“What do you like about him?”

“His _knees_ ,” Poe says, waggling his eyebrows significantly. After another bout of snorted laughter, Ben cuts in.

“Really, she’s not a zoological specimen.”

“No, but she is fresh meat,” says Phasma, a suggestive tilt to her mouth. There’s something bold and assertive about Phasma. She’s modern, but the glint in her eye is familiarly old-money. Difficult to place, especially as the absinthe does its dreamy work on her neurological system.  

“When’s the wedding?” Rose says.

“Oh, we’re not sure,” Rey says, on familiar ground again. “Probably not for a while.”

“Can I be a bridesmaid?”

“Rose,” Finn scolds.

“What? It’ll be on the island, I’m sure, and we can stay up all night the night before talking, and we can pick wild strawberries for your hen night, and I’ll bring you fresh roses-”

“Can someone _please_ marry Rose so she can stop planning everyone else’s wedding,” Ben says, an undisguised note of affection in his voice.

Rose grins at him. “Well you went and ruined everything and wouldn’t marry one of us like you were supposed to, and now we have to fend for ourselves.”

“New blood is going to be bad for property values,” Hux drawls.

“You could always marry Hux,” Rose says dryly, winking at Rey.

“I thought Phasma was marrying Hux?” Finn says, his voice a little irritable.

Phasma shrugs. “I’m open to negotiation.”

“But then you’d have to marry…who, Poe?”

Poe rotates slightly in his chair, letting his athletic legs dangle over the arm rest.

“I’m never marrying,” he declares.

For a moment, sprawled in his chair with his glassy eyes to the ceiling, a look of intense, radiating unhappiness flashes across his face. For an instant he looks much older.

Rose looks at Finn. Finn looks at his glass. A strange, thick silence falls on them all. Rey wonders where Poe was stationed. She wonders where the scars live on that elegant body of his. Whether he was in those god forsaken trenches.  

They lapse into thought for a few awful, dragging moments, suddenly and completely isolated from each other by a shared but private trauma.

Ben’s hand, warm and still, moves to her shoulder, the pad of his thumb settling into the dip of her collarbone. Rey leans into it. 

Poe sits up, smiling broadly at them. “Life’s hell,” he says, “and we might as well get some fun out of it.”

Wordlessly, Rey holds her hand behind her, wanting a cigarette. Wanting _his_ cigarette, specifically. He places it carefully between her fingers and Rey takes a long, satisfying drag. It’s not that it feels good; it’s that she knows she _will_ feel good. Her cheeks are flushed, her head resting heavily on Ben’s knee as she greedily inhales the acrid smoke.

Rose lifts her head and catches Rey’s eye.

“Look at them. So in love I think I might be sick.”’

Finn makes a moon-eyed noise and rolls onto his back, his glossy eyes open to the lanterns above him.

“God, why did Ben get to find love first? So unfair.”

“Speaking of,” says Ben, “Rey, weren’t you going to tell us all what you love about me?”

Rey grinds the cigarette into the nearest ash tray and coughs. Loudly.

“Would you excuse me, I need to find the powder room,” she blurts. 

Poe says, “You passed it when you came in, darling.”

Rey steps carefully over the bodies on the ground, and Rose drunkenly reaches for Rey’s bare feet as if trying to catch a butterfly, giggling when she misses. Feeling Ben’s eyes on her neck, Rey slips through the glass door and shuts it firmly behind her. She doesn’t look at Ben; she wants to be alone for this part, and it wouldn’t do for Ben to risk scandalizing them both by slipping away into the shadowy corners of Poe’s house.

As fresher air fills her lungs, the first thing Rey does is to cough long and hard until the smoky, dizzy feeling clears slightly. Then she moves. The butler is gone, no doubt returned to the sanctity of his pantry to polish silver or berate servants or whatever it is a butler does.

Consulting her mental map of the layout of Poe’s house, Rey guesses that the gallery must be upstairs. Slipping up the marble steps, Rey lets her eyes trail over the candelabra, glittering with all candles, and the heavy tapestries layering the walls.

Seems like a fire risk to Rey, who grew up in a neighborhood of notoriously flammable tenement buildings. The second story of Poe’s house wraps around the two-story atrium like an indoor courtyard, the rooms opening out to overlook the chandelier like a glowing sun in the center of a very expensive solar system.

Rey guesses the gallery is behind the set of double doors directly across from the landing, and she pads softly to them, her bare feet noiseless on the thick gold carpet.

Her guess is correct; the gallery is a long, narrow room lined with wood paneling and completely dark except for a dim light shining through a window at the far end of the hallway. The silence in the gallery is tomb-like and faintly oppressive, and Rey walks quickly down the room, wanting to get out of here as quickly as possible. Her eyes drag over countless pieces of incredibly valuable art. There are a few classical pieces, but Poe's collection trends towards modern artists. 

Glancing down the length of the gallery, Rey easily spots where the theft must have happened.  An obvious blank space glares at her between a saturated Juan Gris and a loud, Cubist explosion that might be a Braque. Rey remembers Leia saying that the Damerons favored modern art; and she believes it. Glancing to left and right, Rey imagines the Monet pieces that had been the first on the island to be stolen, must have looked slightly out of place in this boisterous gallery. But there’s no question that a Monet would certainly fetch more than the cubist pictures that Poe seems to favor. 

But it’s troubling. Rey knows the art market, and any thief worth their salt would never steal something as obvious and prominent as a Monet, because the artist’s enormous popularity would make it very difficult to sell a stolen work, _especially_ if that piece’s theft had been widely reported on in the newspapers. Never mind the hassle of forging documentation for a painting with a living artist. 

Any art house who could afford to sell a picture like that would take one look at the frame and send the dealer packing. In all likelihood, they’d call the police. Rey stares at the blank space, tapping a finger against her lip. How did the thief even get in? Curious, she walks to the window at the far end of the long room. It seems like the most sensible point of entry. Then again, Poe’s house was the first to be hit in the series of thefts, so it’s possible the burglar simply _walked_ in. 

Tugging at the window’s lock, Rey finds it shut fast. Rey wonders about what the window looks like from the outside, and briefly considers a detour to the side of Poe’s house to see if she notices any disturbances, but a noise at the door to the gallery stops her.

A low chuffing sound and the faint patter of little feet echo down the long gallery as a small, _very_ fat orange dog trots down to her. His expression suspicious, he comes to a stop a few feet away, a low growl in his throat.

“Hello, aren’t you lovely,” Rey croons, dropping to her knees and holding out a hand. He eyes her warily for a moment, but trots up and sniffs her outstretched hand. After two firm sniffs, he chuffs as if satisfied and sits down in expectation of pats. After a few tentative scratches behind the ears, the dog appears fully won over, his tail thumping on the floor. His tag announces his name is BB8.

“Now,” Rey says, leaning down to rub the dog’s belly as he flops onto his back, “Why do you think an art thief would go for the most valuable paintings in the collection, when he wouldn’t be able to sell them?”

The dog’s stubby legs point up in the air, jerking slightly in contentment.

“ _Because,"_ Rey says, her tone academic, "He was likely not intending to sell them at all. Good deduction, dog. What a good boy you are, what a handsome and smart boy."

“I hope you don’t talk to Ben like that,” says a voice in the doorway.

Rey blinks, her head snapping up to reveal Hux standing there. Backlit by the foyer’s lights, she can’t see his expression, but his tone is acidic.

“Did you get _lost,_ ” he says, his tone arctic. “Or do you wander around everyone’s home uninvited?”

“I’m a student of modern art,” Rey says, keeping her tone breezy. “I was curious.”

At her feet, the dog begins to whine for more petting, but Rey keeps her gaze fixed on Hux as he walks unsteadily into the room.

“I hate cubism,” he says. “Why can't anyone _paint_ anymore?”

Rey glances around the room. The jarring lines and strong colors aren’t what she’d seek out if she was half-blind on opium, but Hux seems like a man bent on self-destruction. He has that look. 

“Has your family been hit?” Rey says, figuring she might as well ask. 

Hux is staring up at a painting of two male figures intertwined in abstracted, overlapping shades of red. He doesn’t appear to hear her.

“It’s so _ugly,_ ” he says, his voice ragged. 

Rey takes a few steps closer. “Not a fan of modern art?”

“You never answered,” Hux says.

“Answered what?”

“Downstairs. You never said,” Hux pauses, running his sleeve across his mouth. “You never said what you loved about him.”

“Oh,” Rey says, comprehending. “Ben. Well, he’s… he’s Ben. He’s determined. He cares about people. Even the people who make mistakes. He’s, I don't know. He's open minded.”

Hux turns his bloodshot eyes to hers and smiles. “Open minded.”

Rey shrugs, thinking of how he’d taken up working with her without ever batting an eye at her gender. How he’d never talked over her, never taken credit for her work.

“Yes.”

Hux snorts. “You don’t know anything.”

Rey blinks, deciding that Hux isn’t going to be useful after all. It’s always hard to get information from a drunk. They're so tedious.

Turning her face to the dog, she says, “Come on, pup, let’s go find your master.”

“Wait,” Hux says, his steps heavy as he follows her to the gallery door. “Did he tell you about her _?”_

The way he says it- with so much conviction and malice- she can’t help it. She stops. Turns. Hux’s eyes narrow in triumph.

Needing no further encouragement than her eyes meeting his, Hux lets it all out in a rush.

“He loves someone else, or at least he used to. He used to get drunk and talk about her. He was in love with her for years,” he says. “Didn’t he tell you?”

An odd thing is happening in Rey’s stomach. A sinking, twisting feeling. It's a pang of conscience that feels like someone is reaching into her chest and squeezing her ribs a little. Christ, is there some poor girl somewhere in love with Ben? Some woman who might hear about Ben’s engagement in a gossip column and cry herself to sleep? 

“Why doesn’t he marry her?” Rey hears herself say. “If he’s so in love with her. He could have anyone, so why doesn’t he?”

Hux’s eyes narrow. “She hates him.”

Rey blinks. Who would hate Ben?’ 

“ _Why?”_ Rey says, visibly astonished. “Ben is- I mean- what-”

The idea that there’s a woman who would have Ben’s true, devoted love and _not_ want it makes her feel faintly indignant. And, admittedly, relieved. The less collateral damage the better, she thinks to herself.

“So,” Hux says, taking a step closer, “You shouldn’t marry him. You can’t make him happy. You-”

“Rey?”

Hux and Rey both turn sharply around to see Ben standing in the doorway, his large shoulders taking up almost the entire door. His dark eyes are narrowed with a look of intense displeasure. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to have you join me on [my Tumblr!](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) In the wake of Tumblr's sort of insane ban on nudity, I'd especially appreciate it if you followed me on [my Twitter,](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites) which is where I'm most active. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated if you're enjoying my work and want to help me out! It's the only way I get paid ;D


	4. Chapter 4

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:

Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand! 

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay. “Second Fig." (1917)_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

 

Ben doesn’t cross to her, doesn’t move at all. Just stands there, still as a statue. As if to match this display of intensity, Hux doonly just stares at Ben’s face. His hands clench and unclench at his side, and his expression is so vacant he might be dead. The ensuing silence is _awkward,_ and it’s not helped by Ben taking a menacing step forward.

A swift, professional assessment of this situation returns one clear deduction: Ben _cannot_ confront Hux like this. They can’t risk alienating him; not when they haven’t solved anything, not when he might still have information that they need. If Hux and Ben argue, it’ll make it even harder to get information from him.

Rey clears her throat and says, “Hux was very _kindly_ giving me a tour of the gallery.”

Ben turns his eyes on her, his expression…incredulous.

“That’s a damn lie-.”

“Trust me,” Rey says, her voice hard, “That’s what it was, Ben.”

For a moment, they’re locked in a battle of wills. Ben is giving her the _why-on-earth-are-you-doing-this_ face as she sends back a _god-damn-it-Benjamin-don’t-be-an-idiot_ expression so strong it could freeze beer.

Oblivious, Hux sways on his feet, his expression faintly malicious.

“I need a drink,” Hux says.

“You need to go home and rethink your life,” Ben snarls.

“I’ll drive him,” Rey interjects, giving Ben a look. This could be perfect. Access to Hux’s home in the dark with no one around would be the perfect chance to investigate the theft at his property.

And, privately, she wouldn’t mind a chance to drive Ben’s car.

“Like hell _,_ ” Ben snaps.

“Ben,” Rey snaps, bewildered. “It’s no trouble-”

“If you think I’m letting this asshole in my car with _you_ of all people-”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving a car,” Rey says, temper flaring up. “And it would give me a chance to get to know Hux better.”

Pointing this out only seems to make Ben angrier.

“No."

“A lover’s quarrel,” Hux drawls. “What a thing to witness.”

Rey takes a sharp step forward, either to stop Ben from punching Hux or to get close enough to punch him herself. Ben only grinds his teeth together and takes a deep breath, his eyes trained on the ceiling in an expression of intense concentration. Taking his cue, Rey makes a conscious effort to master herself.

“Hux,” Rey finally says, “Would you mind escorting me back down to the patio?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hux says, his voice strangely calm.

Ben takes another step forward, but he does it with so much menace, so much sheer size, that for a moment even _she’s_ taken aback. There’s something in that kind of movement that announces itself a final warning.

“I suggest,” Ben says quietly, “that you think carefully about how you want the next ten minutes to go.”

Rey stares at Ben Solo, a man she’s seen cool and collected in underground distilleries and smoke-laden brothels, as he loses his composure because Armitage Hux spoke to her in an unkind tone of voice.

Was he always like this, she wonders? This…fierce?

“Rey is my fiancée,” Ben says, his voice so low that she has to strain to hear it. “So remember your manners, Armitage, or I’ll happily teach you some.”

Hux, swaying faintly, appears pale but undaunted. “You’re so- so damn selfish. Bringing her here. What the hell were you thinking- Snoke and Phasma, they’ll _ruin_ her life if they think-”

It’s like Ben hasn’t even heard him. His voice is a low, dangerous purr.  

“How’s your new half-brother, Hux? I hear he’s getting half your inheritance. Probably all if it, if he’s good at polo. Must sting.” Ben looks strung taut, like someone has pulled the drawstrings on his body and drawn him up to a new height.

The harsh, blatant meanness in Ben’s voice seems to rouse something equally malicious in Hux, because he recovers his color and his nerve with one haughty toss of his head.

“Go to hell, both of you,” he says. “I can’t help you. And I’m too drunk for this.”

And then, with one last glare at both of them, he walks out of the room.

Alone, Rey leans back against the wall, scowling at Ben, trying to make sense of the past five minutes. In all respects, she should be furious at him. He bungled a job, broke ties with an important contact, and defended her from a slight she hadn’t even felt.

And yet.  

“Was that necessary?” she murmurs.

“What?” he snaps, turning to her like he’s just now remembering her.

“The whole…jealous fiancé thing. I don’t think you had to dial it up that far,” she mumbles. “He got the picture. You were awfully…harsh.”

Ben stares at her for half a heartbeat, until she realizes-

“You’re actually upset.”

“Of course I'm upset,” he snaps. “He cornered you in a dark room-”

“It’s an art gallery.”

“He could have done anything to you. He could have- could have…”

Rey crosses her arms. “You’ve seen me knock a man out cold with a knee to the groin, Ben. I was fine. Hell, I was working. You interrupted me before I could really start to grill him.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t plan this. Tell me this wasn’t your intention all along. To get cornered up here with Hux-”

Rey stands up, stretching her arms overhead and ignoring Ben’s question entirely.

“It’s a moot point, now. And what were you thinking, shooting down that idea about driving him home? That was gold,” Rey says, walking past Ben to stare up at the painting Hux had seemed so fascinated by. The one of the two faceless, scribbled men overlapping in shades of black, gray, and white.

“Because it was an absurd notion. Entirely unsuitable,” Ben grumbles. “First of all, no one but me is allowed to drive my car. And second of all, you shouldn't be alone with a strange man.”

Rey turns back to him, losing the battle to tamp down on her amusement. “I’m alone with you.”

For a moment he looks so traditional and outraged that she wants to laugh.

“I'm your _fiancé_ ,” he blusters. “It’s different.”

“But you’re not my fiancé,” Rey points out, crossing her arms. “So, I’m not sure that it is. And anyway, when did you fall back on morality as a counterpoint?”  

“I promised you an honest job, didn’t I? We’re playing by the rules. I even asked you to marry me and everything.”

“Yes, but the rules don’t correspond to- to actual reality,” Rey says, exasperated.

Ben crosses to her, his expression dark. Like he’s back on familiar ground. He stops in front of her and reaches out for her hand, taking it in his and lifting it up. He runs a hand around the band of the ring, holding it up between their bodies. He could bring his lips to it if he bent his head, but he doesn’t, of course, because why would he ever do something like-

“This is the only reality there is, out here. The only reality that counts.”

His voice is a low murmur, and she feels his breath on the sensitive skin of her palms. Rey’s throat feels thick, somehow. Like she’s swallowed a walnut. Or her own tongue.

“For now,” Rey whispers.

He looks down into her eyes, and she remembers again how tall he is. How broad. How strong. His hands are rough, his fingers knitting neatly into hers. Their left hands are joined at the palm, and Rey has never felt so warm in her life.

“What happened to 'for richer or for poorer'?” he murmurs, his lips twitching, his fingers still wrapped around hers.

Dimly, a few hundred ways to diffuse this situation flit through her mind. Easy banter, a light quip, a firm slap on the cheek that would break this fragile, heated moment into a thousand pieces. But all she can think about is how his hand has warmed the ring, and how it feels like even if she took it off, the mark would never leave, and she would always feel it.

Then she hears Poe.

“Benjamin Solo, what have you done to Hux?”

Hollered from a floor below, Poe’s raucous call cuts through the thing between them, and they pull apart, eyes wide. Ben sighs, giving her one last look before walking to the door of the gallery.

“Not a damn thing,” he barks down Well he’s been sick on the patio,” he calls. “And he’s only sick when he’s distraught, and he’s only distraught because you’re here-”

“I would credit your rather fine Chinese opium for that,” Ben says. “Doesn’t Hux have a sensitive digestive system?”

“I don’t know, _probably_ , but come down here so I can throttle you anyway,” Poe calls cheerfully, and as Rey crosses the room, she and Ben walk out of the gallery and onto the landing. On the first floor, Poe looks up at them with his hands on his hips.

“Oh,” says Poe, eyebrows raising as he takes in Rey. His lips part in a wide smile. “Oh.”

Ben grips the railing. “Oh, for god’s sake, she got lost.”

“I did not,” Rey snaps, insulted that he’d even imply something so idiotic. Got _lost?_  

Poe is grinning. “Here I was thinking you had up and done with your cavorting about, and now I find you holed up with your beautiful fiancée on the second floor of my decadent art gallery, doing who knows what in the sacred darkness of-”

“For god’s sakes,” Ben snaps.

“Poe,” she calls, resolving that Ben cannot reasonably expect her to allow him to ruin _two_ potential leads in one night, “Can we still come boating tomorrow?”

At this, Poe brightens. “Oh, the sailing. Of course you can, though I’m disinclined to invite your taciturn fiancé.”

“If she’s going, I’m going,” Ben grumbles.

“But Ben,” Poe says, grinning widely. “You hate sailing.”

Rey hears a new voice, melodious and friendly.

“Oh, are they going sailing too?”

Finn saunters into the stairwell, his steps unsteady and his smile broad. When he follows Poe’s gaze and sees Rey and Ben on the second floor, he brightens.

“Rey, look at you up there! You’re a comet,” he says, grinning drunkenly. “I think you could fly.”

“Let’s find out!” Poe calls, throwing his arms open. “Come on Rey, jump! I’ll catch you.”

Rey laughs at the expression of total conviction on Poe’s face.

“For the love of Christ,” Ben snaps.

“I’m afraid Ben and I will have to drive home like mere mortals,” Rey sighs. “Though I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Poe grins, pulling Finn into his open arms instead. “Next time, darling.”

Rey grins up at Ben, who looks well and truly put out. A grumpy look suits him.

“Hux won’t give you any trouble again,” Ben mutters, straightening his jacket.

“I don’t know,” Rey says mildly. “I suppose I feel sorry for him.”

“You do take the strangest fancies to people,” Ben mutters, sounding none too approving. 

Rey walks down the stairs, grinning. “I like you, don’t I?”

Ben’s jaw snaps shut, and he follows her, mute and expressionless down the stairs.

* * *

 

After some ten minutes of elaborate goodbyes to Finn and Poe, Rey and Ben finally make their way back out into the courtyard. Sliding into the passenger seat of Ben’s car, she watches him deftly put the enormous car into gear and back it out of the courtyard. The crash of waves has increased, and Rey can hear the scream of the surf breaking on the rough, exposed rock of Poe’s side of the island even over the throaty roar of Ben’s car.

They’re almost to the gate when she decides they’re far enough away.

“Pull over,” Rey says, her hand on Ben’s arm.

Without questioning her, he does, sliding the car neatly to a stop and turning to her expectantly.

“Well?”

Rey hops out, and begins a firm march back towards the house.

“Did you forget something?” Ben says.

Rey turns around. “The window to the gallery. I want to see the outside of it.”

Ben stares. “What?”

“The crime,” Rey says. “We can’t get a good look at Hux’s place tonight, thanks to _you._ But we can get a good look at the outside of the house to see if they broke in that way.”

“Rey, it’s nearly two in the morning.”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you stayed up late all the time.”

“Yes, while drinking, like a civilized person,” he snaps.

“We did that. Now it’s time to do what you brought me here for.”

Ben makes a noise of reluctant agreement and follows after her. The scrubby trees lining the road provide little to no cover, and they walk quickly down the driveway back towards the gleaming vision of Poe’s electric house on the coast.

Rey thinks idly how different this type of investigation is. In the city, they’d spent their prowling hours in dark, steamy streets with rain water dripping down their backs. Now they’re both in formal evening clothes with their hair done properly, creeping down a driveway towards a house so beautiful and improbable that it probably defies some sort of law of physics.

“I’ve never seen you lose your tongue in an investigation,” Ben says, after a moment.

“Hm?” Rey says, mentally assessing how tall the exterior windows must be.

“You couldn’t think of a single thing to pretend to love me for,” Ben says.

Rey turns to look at him, startled. But he seems unfazed, standing just slightly above her with one hand in his pocket. She’s seen him standing in this attitude a hundred times, but that look of blank, careful neutrality was never something he’d saved for her. Never an expression he ever seemed to need.

Are they hiding things from each other now? The thought is unnerving.

“I don’t pretend there isn’t much that’s loveable about you, but let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be. I think it add risks to lean too far into the ruse.”

A laconic smile spreads across his face. Something faintly mocking that makes her narrow her eyes at him.

“When did you lose your nerve, Kenobi?”

Rey stares at him, unable to keep the acidity from her voice.

“When our collective ‘nerve’ as you put it, nearly got us killed.”

Ben’s eyes flick to her calf, and Rey wonders if he’s remembering carrying her out of that warehouse as she bit down on his shirt collar to keep from crying out. The wound still aches from time to time, sweeping in with the weather like a small, sharp tide in her body.

“Ah,” is all Ben says. And then somehow they’re walking again, and they don’t say anything until they reach the exterior of Poe’s house and they can both bury the moment under a blanket of professionalism.

It’s easy to find the gallery window. The single window is black and unlit between two lines of golden windows. A latticed wood trellis leads up to several second story windows, draping the back of the house in a coating of leafy, dark green vines that must do little to protect the stucco from the salt spray.

Rey bends down and tugs her shoes off, feeling Ben's incredulous stare at her back.

"You're not serious."

"Give me a boost?"

"Absolutely not.”

"Ben," Rey says. "This is the job, remember? I’m the smallest of the two of us."

Deciding she probably doesn't need a boost anyway, Rey turns back to the trellis and stares up at the window.

"They came in this way, of course," Rey says.

"I assumed they came in through the staff entrance."

"Feels a little...first thought for my liking."

Rey gets her foot on the first level of the trellis and hikes herself up off the ground, holding her breath.

It holds her, and Rey grins.

"Got it," she exhales.

"Couldn't we just...go in through the house?" Ben objects.

Rey ignores this, ascending slowly through the dense foliage and keeping her gazed fixed on her destination: the second story window.

Halfway up, Ben seems to recover himself.

"The vines don't look disturbed," he calls.

"No, there's no noticeable damage.”

"So they probably didn't come up the trellis," he hedges.

"Just give me a minute, Ben," she says.

When she crests the top of the second story. Wrapping her hands firmly around the wood, she looks in through the second story window.

The gallery is dark, of course, and Rey can only make out the faint suggestion of frames by the dull gleam of the low moonlight. Rey tries the catch of the window, digging her fingers into the frame and tugging. The glass makes a rattling noise, but it doesn't give.

"It's locked," she says.

"Obviously," Ben says acidly.

"No sign of a forced entry," Rey says, inspecting the hasp.

"It's like I said-"

"Did you expect me to just take your assumption at point blank?"

"I had hoped you might."

"Evidence, Ben. For god's sake, we’re professionals," she snaps, turning herself to look down at him.

From this distance, she doesn’t notice his height so much. What she does notice is the bright light of the moon, stark and cold, as it works in tandem with his dark hair to turn Ben into a living statue, stock still and staring up at her. He is awash in contrast, his expensive close tugged loose at the collar, his hair tangling at his neck, his mouth parted slightly.

"Don't you trust me?" he says.

Tucking the hair behind her ears as it falls in her face, Rey says, "Not a whit."

"I think you do trust me," he says. "Otherwise you wouldn't be quite so comfortable testing the strength of that bower."

Rey blinks, realizing she's put all her weight on two points, precariously leaning out in the space above his head. Any street urchin worth his salt knows that what’s she’s doing is poor weight distribution. She’s about to retort something pert when something in her peripheral vision catches her eye.

“Wait,” Rey says, clutching the trellis and climbing just a little higher to peer through the window. The trellis groans in protest, but through the window she makes out the faint outline of someone standing in the gallery. The lights are off, and the figure is standing in the shadows, but without a doubt there’s someone there. Alone. In the dark.

“What is it?” Ben says, his voice suddenly serious. “Do you see something?”

Rey holds her breath, watching as the figure lifts a hand up as if to stroke a painting. Dimly, she hears Ben taking a few steps forward.

“There’s someone in the gallery,” she breathes, all trace of her irritation gone.

“Poe?”

“I’m not sure. It could be nothing,” she murmurs. “But I’m-”

And then, like a cloud passing over the sun, the gleaming window is thrown into darkness as a she’d thought was a statue takes a sharp, jerky step forward. Rey yelps, startled, and that’s when she loses her grip. In the space of two heartbeats, Rey feels herself slipping as she tips backwards. Her hand reaches out, and she knows the exact moment when she realizes that she can’t catch herself in time, and then she’s falling. She has a glimpse of the silver moon hung in the sky, the stars twinkling into the darkness, and then she’s bracing for impact.

And then, with as little fanfare as it had taken to slip in the first place, she slams into the brick wall of Ben’s chest.

Which, to be clear, _still_ hurts, but considerably less than slamming into the Earth wearing a dress meant only to withstand the rigors of an evening party. Dizzily, Rey thinks longingly of the thick skirts and canvas trousers she used to wear around New York for _exactly_ this reason. 

As the world rights itself, she blinks up into Ben’s face. His pupils are blown wide.

“You fell,” he says, gripping her just a little too hard.

“Yes, but did you see it?” Rey says, craning her neck to look back up at the window.

“You could have broken your neck,” Ben is murmuring, his voice raspy.

Rey is struggling in his arms, saying, “The figure in the window. Someone moved across the window and-”

Ben’s head snaps up as he finally connects the dots. “What?”

Finally succeeding in getting out of Ben’s arms, he sets her down and they stand there, staring up at the window.

“Give me a boost,” Rey breathes, walking back towards the trellis, which is still mounted to the house. Still usable.

“Absolutely not,” Ben snarls, yanking her back by the arm.

“Ben,” Rey says, pulling her arm and scowling thunderously at him. “He’ll get away!”

“Yes, and you’ll break your spine.”

Rey tugs harder, feeling suspiciously like a chew toy in the grip of a pit bull. “What’s gotten into you? This is the job, Ben!”

“The job has nothing to do with you pointlessly endangering yourself,” he says, something fervent in his voice. “That thing is unstable, and whatever you want to chase down isn’t worth-”

“If you’re suggesting what I saw was trick of the light, or- or my imagination or something equally stupid I’ll kill you,” Rey hisses, leaning toward him to menace him at a closer distance.

“Of course it wasn’t your imagination,” he says acridly, his voice almost a whisper. “I would never insult your intelligence like that, and even if I would, you clearly haven’t got an imagination or else you’d- you’d have…” 

And then he just…stops. Standing there like someone once installed a statue of a tall, irate man with a determined brow and dark hair right in Poe’s backyard. What had been a scowl now morphs into something like shame.

“Ben?” Rey says, feeling suddenly like she’s made a tactical error.

He doesn’t brood for more than a second. He shakes his head, looking bemused as much as anything. She waits to feel relieved, but all she feels is a faint sense of loss. Like she was close to getting something she wanted, only to see it slip out of her fingers.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says on an exhale, giving the pet name a faintly mischievous, rueful note. “I saw you falling and for a minute there I thought that we were back at that awful warehouse. I think I’ve been feeling a bit like that all night.”

Rey remembers that moment like a trickle of ice water running down her spine, and she thinks about Ben's face as they'd fled, limping and trailing blood, out of that place. They came so close to dying that night, but they hadn't. By some miracle, they'd made it, and she knows that if Ben got in an accident or was put in danger in some way, she'd end up right back in that warehouse again, choking on her fear. 

“I’m sorry for losing my temper,” she murmurs. Meaning it.

He rubs his neck. “And I’m sorry for insulting your capabilities by- by trying to stop you from climbing up trellises.”

And then, forcing a bright smile onto her face, she holds her hand out for him to shake. Ben eyes it for a moment, and she has a half-moment’s fear that he isn’t going to shake it. But then he reaches his hand for hers, and his expression is as cool and blank as the face of the moon overhead as their hands touch.

She wonders, in that moment and in many others, whether he thinks about her wounds as much as she thinks about his.

Rey glances down at her wrist watch, but her eyes just flick over to the ring instead, as if that giant stone could do anything useful outside of reminding her of her own insanity for agreeing to this. For liking being back in the harness and talking frankly with her old partner. For having fun. They begin a brisk walk back to the car, silently agreeing to move on. Sending a mental prayer for sanity, Rey hastens her steps just slightly to fall closer in line with him.

“Think it’s worth the trouble of returning later tonight and breaking into the house?”

Ben gives her a look. “What?”

“You know,” Rey says, gesturing vaguely back towards Poe’s tip of the island. “Oughtn’t we do our job?”

Ben clears his throat. “I was actually hoping we could get a bite to eat.”

“In…an investigative context?”

The car comes into view, hidden slightly behind a low rise.  

“No, I’m just ravenous,” Ben says.

Glancing up at the moon, high in the sky now and glittering sharply against the thick darkness, Rey says, “Is anything open?”

Ben looks away from the road and grins wolfishly at her, very much in his old way with his hair stirring around his face and his eyes faintly red.

“I know a place,” he says.

* * *

Twenty minutes later and they are sitting in his family’s enormous, modern kitchen, the ice box door propped open to allow for easy access to its treasures of cheese, bread, apples, and honey ale. Rey cuts a loaf of crusty bread as Ben pulls out a veritable feast of food.

In theory, they are in his kitchen to debrief on the day’s findings before bed, as per their old custom. But in actuality, she suspects this meeting is more to restore the sense of normalcy they were pulled out of after that unfortunate trellis incident. And the ensuing physical contact, unwelcome flashbacks, and general…strangeness.

Biting into a fig so juicy it should be a crime, Rey remembers an old wives tale about sleeping under the light of a moon making a man go mad. Then she fully registers the taste exploding across her tongue and she moans at the taste. Ben’s head snaps up at that, his brow quirked.

“This is…so good,” she admits, leaning back against the smooth porcelain sink. She imagines she can feel the moonlight streaming in through the window, stroking her neck with a kind of velvety gentleness. The sweet taste and the silvery light make her feel comfortable and faintly sleepy. She wonders what it costs to get fresh fruit out here, let alone something as exotic as figs.

But then, this whole place is wildly improbable.

An island full of rich people off the coast with liberal access to alcohol, produce, and enough art to populate an entire museum. And somehow she’s here, right in the middle of it, as improbable the fig in her hand. And likely as expensive, when the damages are totaled up.

Ben sticks his head back in the icebox, grunting as if in agreement.

“I doubt very much they’re selling the pieces they’ve stolen,” Rey says, forcing her thoughts into order.

“Unless they had a buyer lined up somewhere.”

His voice sounds distorted and metallic from within the icebox.

“An international sale, maybe?” Rey posits, taking another bite of her fig.

“I wouldn’t try shipping a hull full of priceless art pieces anywhere, let alone around here. Conditions are choppy enough as it is.”

“But if it _is_ someone who lives here doing the theft,” Rey says, idly rotating the fruit in her hand, “Wouldn’t they know how to navigate the waters?”

“I doubt it. Poe’s the only one who could do it alone,” Ben says fluidly, leaning back on his heels and inspecting a bottle of wine.  

Rey stares at the broad expanse of his back, wondering if he realizes what he’s just implied. Abruptly, Ben stiffens, looking sharply at her.

“I don’t mean to imply-”

“No, no, of course not,” Rey agrees.

Rey shifts, thinking of the figure in the window, the shadows in the art gallery, the costly imported alcohol.

“But I suppose that we should at least consider the possibility.”

“It’s not Poe,” Ben says flatly.

“But you don’t, I mean, you can’t exactly know that,” Rey says, licking a bit of the fig juice from her fingers.

Ben’s eyes narrow slightly, as if in challenge. “Sometimes, a man just knows things.”

Rey rolls her eyes.

“Since when do you prefer platitudes to investigative research?”

Ben ignores this, resolutely getting to his feet and walking to the counter. He rifles for a bottle opener. Rey’s eyes roam around the kitchen, looking for…something. Anything.

Ben rummages around in a drawer full of sundry metal kitchen instruments and says, “He’s a complicated man, but not a criminal. I don’t think it was him.”

“Who _do_ you think it is?” Rey says, a strong feeling creeping up her spine.

Ben shrugs, still holding the wine bottle in his long, elegant fingers.

His eyes go dark as he glances over at her. “I’m not ruling Hux out.”

Rey shakes her head. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh, so _you’re_ allowed to make wild suppositions, but I’m not?”

“My hunches are always better than yours,” Rey informs him. “And besides, I’m an outside observer, remember? My impressions are less biased.”

“Less biased,” he mutters scornfully, peeling the foil off the bottle with a frown of concentration. “You liked them. Even Hux, for some god damn reason. Admit it.”

She pops the last bit of fig into her mouth, brushing her hands off. “Fine, I’ll admit it; I like them. I liked all of them. Even Hux, though I admit he’s unpleasant. But I feel for him. Something about him… he looks so heartbroken, somehow. He gives me the oddest urge to give him a hug and a cup of tea.”

The cork comes loose with a little _pop_ of air, and he pours them both a glass.

Lifting one up in a toast, he says, “To Armitage Hux, the luckiest, most unpleasant bastard on Millenium Island.”

They drink to…whatever that means, and the taste of the wine floods her palette. After the fig, she feels faintly luxurious standing here in her formal wear drinking and eating food she could never have had access to in her own life. It feels a bit like she’s living in a delicious secret. Oddly, Rose’s face flashes in her mind’s eye. So sweet and dreamy. So ready to believe their little charade.

“Ben,” Rey says, staring into the middle distance. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says absently, working the cork back into the bottle with some vigor. The muscles on his arms flex, and she wonders that she’d never noticed before tonight how strong he is. Probably because he’s such a terrible distance runner, she tells herself. And yet even with his brows screwed up in concentration, she can’t deny there’s a certain physical…boldness about him. She remembers the way he’d caught her, the sound of his loud grunt of surprise as his arms had come around her, the warmth of his body-

Ben says, “You’ve got quite a look on your face. What are you puzzling over in that brain of yours?”

Rey goes totally blank.

“Hux,” she lies.

Ben scowls. “Oh, you mean what he said in the gallery?”

To her intense shame, it takes her a minute to even remember what Hux had said to her. She’s going to have to stay up late tonight writing these details down; between the absinth and the memories, her mind is alarmingly elsewhere.  

“Right, yes, that woman. Who you’re in love with,” she says, taking another drink. “I wasn’t sure how much you heard while you were lurking in that doorway.”

“Hux doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Rey walks to the kitchen door, which leads out onto the lawn, which leads down to the sea, which leads back to Manhattan, which leads back to the past, and it all seems to unwind in front of her like a spool of film being unwound.

She murmurs, “So there’s not some poor girl out there whose heart we’re breaking with this little game?”

Enough of a silence ensues that she turns back from the door to look at him, but he doesn’t look at her when he says, “No. I’m afraid my reputation as a debaucher has been highly exaggerated. I hope you won’t be too disappointed. I assure you, no one is crying over my lost love.”

He says it with such acidity, such honesty that Rey feels the air return to the room slightly, like smoke had creeped into the space and stolen the oxygen only for Ben to unexpectedly open a window.

“I’ll try to manage my disappointment,” Rey says lightly.

It sounds hollow even to her, and after a second of processing she’s forced to admit that the feeling of intense, surging relief have less to do with the idea of some other woman being spared an agony of jealousy than she’d thought. It’s relief that _she’s_ being spared it. Well, not an _agony_ , but…

Of course she’d known Ben was an attractive man, but she’d understood that fact in an abstract sense. Seen him in evening clothes, in the papers, in her office drunk as a lord. His looks were a fact of him as much as his brain or his body or –

Rey colors, and all at once understands that one day when Ben marries someone for real, they won’t ever be able to be alone like this again. Hadn’t that been her exact preach to him in the art gallery? She’d misunderstood her own ethos, had underestimated the dangerous temptation of a man’s forearm as he carefully slices up a round of brie and plates it carefully onto a ceramic plate.

 _I’m leaning too far into the ruse,_ she thinks, scowling at her wine glass. _And I’ve had far too much to drink._

Her eyes skip around the room, moving from the ice box to the sink to the door to Ben’s freckled forearm. He is breaking off bread from a baguette for her, his hands strong and purposeful.

“I need to go to bed,” Rey hears herself say.

“Shall I show you to your room?” Ben says, holding the plate out for her.

She takes it in two hands, abandoning her wine glass, nearly tripping on a delivery crate full of champagne on the floor. “No, no, that’s quite fine. I’ll be- I’ll be going. Thank you. Goodnight.”

And without looking back, she walks stiffly for the door.  

But the savage, hungry gladness in her chest stays with her until she’s back in her own room, with the door between her and the rest of the world firmly shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hope you had lovely holidays and your family only made you cry a _little_ bit! 
> 
> I have few new oneshots up on my page which you might also enjoy, and I'd also love to have you join me on [my Tumblr](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) or even better on [my Twitter,](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites) which is where I'm most active. 
> 
> If you're enjoying my story, I would be sincerely grateful if you'd leave me a comment, tell a friend, or drop me some kudos. It's the only way I get paid ;D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Ben's POV for like twenty minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are typos. I didn't do a careful proof pass because I'm lazy and I didn't want to.

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,

This is the thing I find to be:

That I am weary of words and people,

Sick of the city, wanting the sea.

 

_-Edna St. Vincent Millay. “Exiled." (1917)_

* * *

  
Benjamin Solo’s first waking thought the next morning is to wonder if he dreamed the whole thing up. Sitting sharply up, the familiar flannel of his childhood bedroom sheets slips across his torso, and he throws them off his body as the warm morning air all but suffocates him.

But even with all that, his spirits are unusually buoyant. He all but flies through his morning ablutions, shaving and running a towel through his hair damn near singing.

He can’t believe he pulled this whole thing off.

Sticking his head out his door, he glances down the hallway to Rey’s room. It’s open, and he can hear the faint sound of silver on china from the breakfast room. Jogging down the stairs, he pauses before greeting his family and fiancée, preening with truly nauseating self-consciousness.

Dark hair, linen shirt, under eye circles all accounted for.

Rey is sitting with his mother in the morning, her hair pulled back into a low bun at her neck. In the morning light, reflected off the snowy white breakfast linens and the gleaming china, she looks faintly angelic. Pale and faintly translucent, like a night creature he’s dragged into broad daylight.

For a second he just stands in the doorway, watching his mother and Rey murmur to each other, their heads bent. Predictably, Han is nowhere to be seen.

Leia smiles, reaches across the table, and pats Rey’s hand with the kind of motherly affection he’d always found hard to get from her.

But, that’s Rey. Able to find affection in the oddest of places. When they’d met, he’d had no particular expectation of anything from her except the use of her apartment for research purposes. Her chief advantage had been her proximity to a suspected murder. And then, like some kind of … mist, she’d gotten her fingers into him.

“Ladies,” Ben says, breaking whatever spell has brought the two most important women in his life into deep consultation.

Leia beams, and Rey gives him a faintly distressed smile.

“Oh, good morning,” she says.

“What havoc have you two been planning?”

“Come and sit, dear,” his mother says, her tone all business. “We were just having a tete-a-tete.”

“Should I be nervous?” Ben says, pulling a chair out next to Rey. The light linen dress she wears has ridden up slightly, and Ben can see her entire calf in the shadowy half-light under the dining room table.

Turning his attention to buttering a piece of toast with more than his usual vigor, he almost misses Leia’s declaration.

“Well, I’ve been thinking, and we really must have the ceremony on the island. I’ve been drafting a list of potential locations, and I’m afraid there’s nothing for it, it has to be here.”

Ben takes a bite of toast to avoid speaking. Rey, bless her, takes point.

“Mrs. Organa, we couldn’t possibly impose on your hospitality,” she says firmly. “Ben and I thought we might have a – a simple ceremony in town. A town hall.”

The door opens and Han, dressed in boaters and a flat-topped cap that announces his morning’s occupation has been duck shooting, grins. “Did I hear talk of this wedding?”

Ben reaches for the coffee carafe and pours himself a cup into his usual mug, a chipped camp mug from his scouting days that he’s always favored.

“Ah, Han,” Leia says briskly. “Don’t you think a summer wedding would be just the thing?”

Han sits heavily in the chair across from Leia’s. “Whatever you think, dear.”

“Just so,” she agrees. “The ballroom cleans up beautifully, and I’ve already called a cleaning crew in. The whole thing needs to be waxed, of course, and I think the frescos need retouching. A great deal to do and not much time to do it, but it’s nothing that can’t be accomplished with the controlled application of good, American cash.”

Han butters a scone. “Your mother approached our wedding with just the same business acumen.”

“Do you think,” Leia says, tapping her chin with her pen. “That roses are overdone for weddings? Of course, one can’t go too wrong with the classics, but one likes to keep things fresh. I only have one child, so I want the whole thing to really go.”

Han sets down his scone. “What about the food?”

“Four courses, of course,” Leia says.

Under the table, Rey begins tapping her foot. The fabric of her dress creeps faintly higher. She doesn’t wear a slip underneath. He wonders, swallowing dryly, if she wears anything under her clothes at all. That would be like her. Like how he imagined it.

Han nods his approval. “Can we skip a soup course?”

Ben thinks that Rey has a body like an athlete’s. Not sylphish, not quite the boyish mode of the moment, but something just faintly… lithe. Like at any moment she might jump up and sprint out the door, chasing some hunch or some lucky bastard who caught her interest.

Leia leans her head over her notebook and makes a note. “Excellent thought, husband. Soup is so tedious in the summer. If I eat one more cold soup on a patio at a summer wedding, I think I’ll end up dashing my own brains out. What about a cheese course?”

Han purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Kinda foreign, isn’t it?”

“But distinctive, I think. I want it to have a note. Oh, and the press will need to be given something, pour dears. Han, we have some decent champagne in the cellar, don’t we? I want the notices to be favorable.”

She smells like hazelnuts. He wonders if she knows that.

Han chuckles. “If they’ve got any sense, they’ll be nominating Rey for sainthood.”

Ben loves hazelnuts.

“Oh, goodness, what am I even thinking about. The dress,” Leia says breathlessly. “Who is your designer of choice, dear? Channel? Molyneux? I don’t know who the modiste of the moment is.”

Leia laughs, and Ben drains his mug and wishes he had a bigger one. At his side, Rey grips her napkin under the table, her knuckles white. She has the determined set to her jaw that she always wears when she’s in the grip of a strong emotion. For a minute, he stops imagining Rey’s thighs, because Ben’s seen that look before. It’s the moment right before the flight or fight response kicks in.

Leia, looking up from her notebook, looks straight at Rey.

Rey looks faintly pale. “I’m- I don’t-”

Ben sets his cup down, because the only person on this god forsaken island who is allowed to mess this charade up is him, damn it.

“Mother. It’s eight in the morning. Please don’t give my bride a heart attack.”

Leia tsks. “Neither of you seem to be taking this quite seriously. It’s an enormous undertaking, a wedding. To say nothing of marriage. Oh, and children. Benjamin, I’m not sure if you were aware, but you were often a difficult child.”

“Mother.”

Leia turns to Rey, setting her pen down with ominous finality. “Yes, I do think roses will do nicely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call that odious man about the champagne order. We’re going to need enough to get Brendol drunk enough to gift you both a new boat. After that unsavory incident with his mistress, I daresay he owes us.”

Rey straightens slightly, and Ben nudges her pointedly under the table.

Unexpectedly, it’s Han who cuts in.

“If it wasn’t for a, uh, community contribution, there’d be one more scandal attached to this godforsaken rock,” Han says heavily. “Hux’s father has some...indiscretions to his name. Luckily for all parties, someone started robbing us of our art, so Brendol’s recreational activities went under the radar.”

Rey shifts. Her dress shifts. Ben shifts.

“Does everyone know?”

“Everyone here,” Han says, his gravelly voice low. “But then, everyone’s got secrets.”

“Even your family?” Rey says, smiling engagingly.

Ben stiffens. Not now.

“Han,” Leia says firmly. “We are at breakfast.”

“What? She’ll find out sometime. Leia’s father-”

“Dad.”

Leia stands, rubbing a temple. “Lord, I tire of journalists. The number of…scandals attached to this place. It wears one out. How nice it will be to end up in the papers for a sensible reason. At this point, even a funeral would be a nice change of pace.”

Rey takes a drink of her coffee, her eyes focused on nothing and her hand under the table trembling just slightly.

* * *

Rey reminds herself firmly that what they’re doing is...business. Of a kind. That she is not mistress of Ben’s family relationships. That this whole thing is for a greater good, and that when they solve the crime and get the curiosity of the world away from the Solo family’s private lives, Leia will ultimately benefit from the lie.

But that, and the disconcerting realization about Ben’s physical… attractiveness last night, have started the morning on a somewhat odd foot. Ben is no help, serious and introspective on the drive over. He seems preoccupied too, and she wonders if he regrets this whole thing yet.

When they arrive at Poe’s home for the day’s yachting excursion, her spirits lift slightly as they walk through the home to the back garden. Poe’s backyard is less of a garden than a controlled descent down to the water, with steeply terraced rocky cliffs coaxed into being by a very clever stone mason.

It’s such a marvel of engineering that she can’t help feeling cheered, and the sight of Poe’s boat bobbing in the water far, far below sends a thrill of pleasure through her body.

She all but skips to the first steps.

“Careful,” Ben says sharply, “These steps are-”

“Marvelous,” Rey interjects.

“-covered in saltwater and dangerous.”

Ignoring him, Rey walks jauntily down the steps. The wind whips around her ankles, tugging the fabric of her shawl and her summery linen dress as if eager to pull her to the water.

Rey turns back, one hand holding her straw hat to her head and the other firmly holding the railing fastened to the rocky cliff. Ben looks hungover and put out, his shirt open at the collar and rolled at the sleeves, the only concession to the purportedly festive occasion.

“Lighten up,” Rey orders him. “You promised me a good time, didn’t you?”

Ben comes to a stop on the step above her, as tall and stern as the cliff. “I didn’t realize your idea of a good time was yachting. Are you sure you’re still a street rat?”

Rey pokes her tongue out. “The street-rattiest part of me is my ability to find pleasure wherever I go. Even on yachts, if I must.”

Slipping back into a forward march, Rey all but bounces down the steps.

On the subject of that spring in her step, Rey’s not sure where it came from. She’d never been a giddy girl. Always, she’d been serious and practical, prepared to make friends but ready to meet enemies. Nothing had ever really made her feel like this. Like a feather on a warm breeze.

At her back, Ben is far more like a marble paperweight, but somehow that’s comforting too. Like if she slipped away, he’d be the one to catch her and hold her to the earth.

When they reach the bottom of the steps, the sound of the water has turned from a demure lapping to a high-powered rush of noise as the sea splashes against the basalt face. Ben follows her gaze.

“The waves will erode the whole island, one day,” he says quietly.

Rey reaches out and takes his hand in hers. He’s not wearing gloves, and she knows her skin is unfashionably tanned, but it doesn’t matter. He stares at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Ben,” Rey says. “People who are madly in love don’t have time for soil erosion.”

That does the tick, and suddenly he’s grinning at her, his serious mood evaporating like a noontide cloud. He holds her hand a little tighter, and, arm in arm, they stroll down from the stone steps onto the weathered pine dock stretching out over the water.

Holding his forearm like this, she’s reminded uncomfortably of last night’s…revelation. Again. Surely, she can appreciate the feel of a man’s forearm without losing her professionalism. Ben needn’t ever know about her folly.

“The docks have to go out far from the shore to get away from the rocks,” Ben explains in an undertone.

“Your dock isn’t as long,” Rey says, forcing herself to say something…professional. Her eyes trip across the gleaming wood boat teeming with liveried servants carrying crates and boxes and hauling ropes to and fro. Huge white sails, billowing back and forth in gusty, unpredictable shoreline breezes seem almost to wave at them. It’s the single friendliest looking vessel Rey’s ever seen.

“We have the best dock,” Ben says. “We got here first.”

“Who has second best?”

Ben frowns, either in concentration or displeasure. “Snoke. And don’t mention that to him, he’s sore about it.”

“Some men just can’t handle being second best,” Rey says, her gaze slipping past the boat to the specter of Snoke’s enormous Georgian house spreading down the sloping, grassy middle of the island. Ben’s home is the only one with an actual beach, but Snoke’s home has an artificial one that seems a fairly good copy. The faint suggestion of dynamite bore holes gives it away.

Rey glances back at Poe’s house, towering above them now, and decides she prefers Poe’s approach: smaller house, long dock. It might be precarious and untenable, but at least it’s beautiful.

As if hearing her mental ramblings, Poe sticks his head out over the top of the boat and peers down at Rey and Ben on the dock.

“Ah, hello! Recovering from last night’s revels, I hope?”

“Nothing clears the head like sea spray,” Ben says flatly.

“Good show, Benjamin, but you’re incorrect,” Poe says.

“It’s champagne,” calls Finn, walking down the dock toward them with a wooden crate full of bottles in his arms. “Champagne clears the head.”

Poe frowns. “Another shipment?”

Finn doesn’t appear to have heard him. “These were in your kitchen! I thought you’d forgotten them so I’d just bring them along.”

Poe frowns, rubbing his mouth. “Well, too much of a good thing is what we Damerons call a ‘non-issue,’ right, ace? Say, Rose old girl, throw down the gangway for our guests.”

Rose, dressed in a boyish sailor suit that Rey covets with every fiber of her being, emerges over the railing to wave at them.

“Batten down the hatches!” she hollers, moving with a few of the ship’s crew to lower the gangway.

Rey leans her head toward Ben. “Is that…correct nauticalism?”

“No, but don’t tell her,” Ben says, smiling. “She gets a lot of fun out of pretending.”

And then the plank is lowered, and Rey and Ben emerge on the gleaming hull of the _Rebel_ , a huge, gleaming wooden ship polished to a blistering shine.

Clearing the top step, Rey lets go of Poe’s hand and takes in the sum of the expansive boat bobbing gently on the waves. The sails above them billow cheerfully, flapping full of air and then deflating alternately. The day feels full of promise, and Rey lets herself forget for the moment that this whole thing is based on a falsehood, because the day is warm, the people are friendly, and the boat is beautiful.

When she turns to beam at Ben, she finds him looking very cross all over again. His eyes trace over her, like he’s trying to evaluate her for some quality. Seaworthiness, she decides.

Poe cuts in, drawing her attention back. “So, I thought we could take out on a tour around the island. Give you a boat-view of the whole picture. Through the bay, then a dramatic turn for effect, before we make for the open water.”

Finn, picking up a length of rope laying on the deck and looping it around his shoulder, adds, “You ever sailed before?”

“A little, but not very well,” she says, drawing her wrap a little tighter around her shoulders.

“Splendid.”

At her side, Ben says, “Can you swim?”

She turns to him. “That’s an awfully ominous question.”

His lips twitch.

Poe calls something to the attendant at the dock, and then the boat is let free of its mooring and pushes out onto the open water. It feels like standing on top of something that is alive, a wooden creature fueled by erratic gusts of wind that push them forward. Even with five sailors and six guests, the boat still feels oversized for the occasion.

Rey eyes the shoreline hungrily as Finn and Poe work together to navigate the craft, and occasionally a deckhand runs to climb up to loosen or tighten a sail as they tack and jibe their way around the island.

It’s a rocky island through and through, with the swell of the peak rising into the horizon like the silhouette of a sleeping animal.

The houses, all in a line, stretch from the ridged spine of the island and on a sharp incline down to the water, either ending in a riot of boulders and crumbling rock as with Poe’s house, or in an ecologically improbable sprawl of green lawn, as with Hux and Snoke’s home.

Rey leans on the railing, feeling about a hundred feet away from the surface of the water. She almost doesn’t notice Hux, because his pale coloring blends him in with the canvas lawn chair he’s sitting in.

Hux, one leg propped over the other, is taking a long drink from his champagne flute. After a loud swallow, he looks at her through dark tinted glasses.

“Oh, Hux, good morning,” Rey manages, resolutely refusing to fidget. “How are you feeling?”

“Rather appalling,” he says.

Turning from the view, Rey leans against the railing to inspect him more closely. She’s sure that, if the glasses came off, he’d have dark circles under his eyes.

“Well, I hope the fresh air does you some good,” she says coolly. Rey never has the heart for malice when she’s standing in the sun.

“Look,” Hux says irritably, “If you’re going to be one of those women who only cut me to pieces behind my back, this’ll never work.”

Rey stares. “Pardon?”

Hux points at Rose, standing at the wheel next to a man in a captain’s hat watching Rose pilot with uneasy good humor. “Rose and I are friends for one reason only: she’s not afraid to say what she thinks directly to my face. Frankly, it’s the only reason any of us are friends. So if you’ve got something to say to me, you’d better just say it.”

Stunned, Rey stares at his languid, bored expression, at the way the champagne flute is bumped by the waves until it almost knocks over.

“You want me to berate you to your face?”

Hux, lifting the glass to his lips, smiles.

“Have at it. Say whatever you like.”

“What did you mean last night?” Rey says, deciding that she might as well.

Hux shifts. “Excuse me?”

“After that horrible scene in the gallery. You said-”

Hux waves a hand in front of his face and relaxes back into the chair. “How was I supposed to know what I was talking about. I was high, sweetheart.”

The endearment sounds patronizing, coming from him, which is strange because it sounds so warm and affectionate coming from Ben. On impulse, she glances across the deck at Ben, who is staring at Rey with a look of intense, murky skepticism on his face. With a tiny shake of her head, she waves him off. He gives her a raised eyebrow, but makes a good show of turning his attention back to whatever Finn is saying next to him.

“You were quite clear,” Rey says. “You said Phasma and Snoke would ruin my life if they found out…something, but Ben didn’t let you finish.”

Hux snorts. “Oh, that. Pay no mind. It’s just that we’re all rather awful, and you seem so…”

“But that’s the thing,” Rey says, thinking back on the previous evening. “No one has been awful so far.”

No one on this island has been anything but kind and welcoming. Based on the evidence she currently has, Hux’s show of intimidation seems like just that: a show.

“Maybe,” Rey murmurs, “You’re telling me they’re awful because you’re scared to admit that you like them.”

Abruptly, Hux gets to his feet, his glass dangling in one limp hand as he walks up to her. Upright and in daylight, there’s something of a military man in him. That posture. That faint rigidity. The straight set of his head. It’s easier to see when he’s slightly less inebriated.

“I suspect you think you know a great more than you _do._ ”

“Maybe so. But forgive me if I doubt that any of _that_ lot,” Rey says, pointing back to the back of the boat where Finn is trying to juggle oranges, “Are hiding desperate secrets.”

Hux fixes his gaze on Snoke’s white house as it inches slowly into view.

“Everyone has secrets, Rey Kenobi of New York, thirteenth street.”

Rey starts, deciding it would be wiser to say nothing as a cold, unpleasant shock moves down her spine. Apparently he knows more about her than he’d let on. Fine. If he wants her to play hardball this badly, then she’s happy enough to oblige. Rey lets her demure shawl slip from her shoulders, and she knots it around her waist with short, irritable movements.

“Alright, you want me to be direct? Then let me take some wild guesses. You were an officer,” Rey says, dipping her chin. “Not a senior one, but high up. I bet you got a cushy position out of your commanding officer. Something… intimate. Private secretary?”

She casts her mind over the mental report she’s been drafting in her mind about this man. Connecting dots. Drawing a few tentative conclusions based on observation and the research she did before arriving here.

Hux is motionless, his white polo shirt tugging in the wind.

“And,” Rey says, deciding that if she’s going for the kill, she might as well finish the damn thing.

“I’d wager that you and your fiancée are wildly unfaithful to each other. I’d wager a lot on that point, Armitage Hux, eldest and only legitimate son of Brendol and Mira Hux.”

Taking one sharp step forward, Rey gives Hux her most dead-eyed look. The one that scared key codes out of porters. Hux is giving her a not-quite-anything look, a sort of intermediary expression that might be trending towards begrudging approval when Finn appears at their shoulder, startling both of them.

“Rey, darling, what are you doing up here holed up with Hux? You’re missing _la grande tour_ , ma belle,” he says. “Hux, don’t be unpleasant.”

In response, Hux pushes his sunglasses down slightly, locks eyes with Rey, and dumps the rest of the champagne in his glass over the edge of the boat. He smiles at her in a way that exposes all of his teeth.

“Very genteel of you,” Finn scolds.

Rey puts a hand on Finn’s arm. “You were saying? About the island?”

Walking arm in arm back to the back of the boat, where Poe, Ben, and Rose are standing in the sun, eating grapes and smoking. Ben’s eyes linger on her face, searching for something. And then that gaze moves down to the exposed skin at her neck. For a minute, he looks faintly seasick, his cigarette held idly in one hand.

“Of course you know Poe’s place,” Finn says, distracting her. “And that’s Snoke’s place just in front of us there.”

She turns, remembering her own curiosity about the place. It’s…even more gigantic from this close, ungainly and out of place.

“Rather…striking,” Rey manages.

In her peripheral vision, Ben smiles. Rose scoffs.

“It’s the most ridiculous piece of architecture for miles. Why on earth you’d build something that improbable out here escapes me, but one can only conclude his motives were less than artistic.”

“Translation?” Poe says dryly.

“It means,” Rose says, tossing a grape into her mouth, “That he built a house meant for a wet English countryside on a rocky island where it gets battered with salt spray and cold air all day. It must cost a fortune to maintain. The glazing alone-”

“Poor bastard hasn’t been out much since the theft.”

“Was he very distraught?” Rey says.

Finn nods. “He’s in insurance, and his specialty is fine art. Never met anyone so…zealous about it in all my life.”

Insurance? Rey glances over at Ben, who has moved on to staring at her ankles.

“You know, my house hardly fits in either,” Poe points out.

“But Mediterranean architecture is designed to be near the sea, at least. And before anyone says it, yes, we all know Ben’s house is the most sensible, but let’s not dwell on it,” Rose says briskly. “Rey hardly needs any more reasons to love him, stiff shirt that he is.”

“Where’s Phasma’s house?” Rey asks.

“We’ll pass it; it’s on the other end of the island from Poe’s.”

“My side of the island,” Poe says on an exhale, “I like the sound of that. Makes me feel like I belong with you old money snobs.”

“What does your family do, exactly?” Rey asks.

Poe grins. “Steel, mostly, but recently my father has gotten into speculation. Made a packet last week without ever lifting a finger.”

“What did he do with the money?”

“You’re standing on it!” Poe laughs.

Ben’s voice cuts in. “I don’t condone speculation, Poe. I’ve spoken to your father about this. The market can’t boom forever-”

“Driver,” Poe calls, and the captain at the helm turns back to them, “Catch us a fairer wind, I think we should fly through the rest of this journey.”

Poe takes Rose and Finn firmly by the arm and all but shoves them towards the middle of the boat, where a small table full of treats and drinks waits on precarious silver trays.

Ben moves to her side, his expression impassive as they watch the trio begin an animated discussion about some apparently fashionable French style of architecture making its way over via picture plates.

Ben leans his head down, his hair tousled by the breeze and his eyes looking very brown.

“Your dress-“ he says, and stops. “Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s rather modern, do you like it? It makes me feel _nouveau._ I think it’s rather fetching,” she says, giving him a coquettish twirl.

“Rather,” he says distractedly, “But you just- look, do me a favor and put your shawl back on.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that,” she says, pleased at the way his eyes are fixed to the lines of her collarbones.  

“Fine, then at least do me the immense kindness of moving out of the sunlight.”

“Oh,” Rey says, grinning around a pleased flush spreading up her cheek. “How the times have changed. What does this make, a mere twenty four hours of dressing like an upstart and suddenly I’m-”

“I’ve always known you were beautiful,” he says flatly.

That stops her. “No you didn’t.”

“I had eyes, didn’t I?” he says gruffly, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Why didn’t you ever mention it?” Rey says, feeling… well, breathless. And flattered. Enormously flattered.

He gives her a half-smile. “I was too busy trying not to get killed.”

She gives him a hard shove and he laughs.

“If I end up falling into the sea, you’ll be left here all by yourself to play the part of a grieving widow,” he says cheerfully. “And that role wouldn’t suit you at all.”

Rey points a finger at him. “I’ve made a concerted effort not to let either of us die on the job, and I don’t mean to start slacking off now.”

He smiles. “Such tender words of affection. One could almost believe you loved me.”

That hits her hard, and there’s a sudden lump in her throat. Wordlessly, she reaches out for Ben’s cigarette, and he hands it to her without even so much as a raised eyebrow. What is she _supposed_ to say to that? He’s putting her in a damn hard spot.

_No, I don’t love you, but I earnestly contemplated sneaking into your bedroom last night just to see what your chest muscles feel like in the dark._

Rey scowls around the cigarette. Ben, utterly uncaring as ever, watches her without even a trace of the disturbed feelings rioting in her chest. Damn him.

“Speaking of tender words,” Rey says, clearing her throat as the smoke coats it. “I had an exchange with Hux earlier.”

Ben’s expression sours. “Shall I hit him with an oar for you?”

“-and what Poe said, about Snoke,” Rey continues, handing the cigarette back. His fingers brush hers, sundrenched and warm. Rey’s voice feels…tight. “He’s in the art insurance business. Does he happen to insure any of the pieces that were stolen?”

Ben’s murderous expression lifts as an expression of professional curiosity reinstates itself. The boat is making its slow, steady way along the coast, and Snoke’s palatial home is directly in front of them now. Ben takes a long inhale on his cigarette.

“I’m not actually sure,” Ben says. “He’s rather new to the business.”

“Insuring fine art is a somewhat new business itself. Did he always do that?”

“No,” Ben says, shaking his head. “He rather appeared out of nowhere. We don’t know much about his backstory. I believe his family immigrated here from….somewhere or other. Actually, I know almost nothing about the man.”

Rey taps a finger to her chin and turns, calling out, “Poe!”

Poe turns around, his mouth full of grapes.

“Yes, my dove?”

“Is Mr. Snoke attending the party on Friday?”

Poe mocks a shudder, crossing to them again. “Oh, certainly. Can’t leave Snoke out. Not if you want to stay on his good side.”

One of the sailors, looking a great deal more professional than the rest of them in his crisp uniform, calls something about rough water ahead. Poe waves him off in acknowledgement as Rose scampers eagerly to the front of the boat.

“Does he have a bad side?” Rey says innocently.

“Doesn’t everyone?” says Poe, glancing over at Hux, who is standing at the far back of the great ship, his eyes fixed on the water. Rey gives Ben a significant glance.

“I’d like a drink,” Ben says, his eyes on her neck again. Poe claps his hands.

“Splendid, splendid. I’ve an entire ocean’s worth, come along, Benjamin.”

Rey scowls after him. _Coward._ Fine, she’ll just have to face the unsavory man alone. As if on cue, she hears Hux say her name. Quietly, and without looking at her, his voice carries on the wind.

“Rey. Come here a minute, will you?”  
He’s standing a few feet away, his body held in a position of intense uprightness as he stares fixedly at Snoke’s home.

Curious, Rey walks to the back of the boat, where the railing is lowered to give deck hands access to the auxiliary engines. He looks precarious and very interested in something.

“Have you ever been on such a wonder of science?” he says.

Rey glances at the engine, at the sails, at the enormous house. They all feel aggressive and impressive, their strong lines and new technology cutting a daring slash through the gentle sloping lines of the landscape and sea.

“It’s quite something,” Rey agrees blandly.

“Your fiancé says that this whole economy could drop out. Did you know that?”  
“Fascinating,” Rey says, slightly distracted by the movement of the sailors as they adjust the boat for open water. Sails are hoisted. Ropes are pulled. Even as she watches, they begin to pick up speed.

“That the whole system could just… cease to function, and we’d all be out on our heels. As penniless as you are.”

Rey, who is decidedly _not_ penniless since her business had taken off, is half-inclined to correct him. But he seems caught up in something, his watery red eyes fixed on the shoreline, his body tense.

“He says at any moment everything could change.”

“Maybe so,” Rey says, only half-listening. God, she hates interviewing drunks. So tedious.

“Look,” Hux says, pointing at the water. “What is that?”

At his side, Rey peers over the edge and sees nothing. “I can’t-”

“On the side of the boat,” Hux says, right at her side. “Look down.”

On her toes now, Rey scrutinizes the side of the boat. She gets a grip on the edge, peering carefully over the back. There’s nothing but a low ledge separating her from the engine, and she’s careful not to slip.

“Did you see a fish, or-?” Rey says, baffled and annoyed.

“Rey,” calls Ben, his voice urgent. “Be careful, the tide-”

The boat rocks, and she feels Hux put a hand on her arm as if to steady her, and then-

And then she’s pitching head first over the edge of the boat and into the water.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for the delay; gonna try and post shorter but more regular updates. Thank you to Casey for her lovely beta read on this chapter! I love you!
> 
> I'd also love to have you join me on [my Tumblr](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) or even better on [my Twitter,](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites) which is where I'm most active. 
> 
> If you're enjoying my story, I would be sincerely grateful if you'd leave me a comment, tell a friend, or drop me some kudos. It's the only way I get paid ;D


	6. Chapter 6


    I will be the gladdest thing  
    
    Under the sun!  
    
    I will touch a hundred flowers  
    
    And not pick one.  
    
    "Afternoon on a Hill"(1917)  
    
    Edna St. Vincent Millay 

* * *

In an abstract sense, it’s not the first time he’s watched her fall to her death. In what surely must be some instinct for masochism, his brain has conjured up plenty of visions of her falling off fire escapes, being struck down while darting through a busy street, shot in the chest while chasing after tommy-gun wielding mobsters.

But the experience of watching her tumbling head first into the Atlantic without so much as a scream was one not even his ridiculous, overdramatic brain had dreamed up. Pushed off a pier with lead blocks tied to her legs, sure, but never _this._ But of course, the real difference is that this time he can do something _._

The sailboat is moving fast now, heading at higher speed for open water, and he kicks his shoes off without thinking and runs for the water.

Everyone is running, but he’s fastest, making for the back of the ship and diving in after her without even punching Hux in the jaw. If the circumstances were different than they are, that would have been his first and only priority. But the conversation with Rey from earlier flashes in his mind.

_Can you swim?_

_What an ominous question._

The blast of freezing cold water to the face sobers him, and his thoughts go steady and quiet as his focus shifts to the tips of his fingers and the toes of his feet as he kicks hard against the water, making for the flash of soft brown in the distance.

From what he can tell between strokes, her head is bobbing above the surf as she treads water. Despite this, his brain doesn’t calm down even a little, and even with the adrenaline it takes him a frustratingly long time to get to her with the choppy surf battering against him.

After a small eternity, he all but collides with her warm body, grabbing onto her with one arm and churning the water with his free hand and his legs.

“You alright?” he says, his voice hoarse.

“I’m not a good swimmer,” she says, sputtering a little. “And I hate the ocean.”

“Well, that means,” Ben says, getting a better grip on her as the boat’s wake rocks them back and forth, “that I’m officially better than you at two things.”

Spitting water from her mouth and gripping him with one hand, she gives him a weak smile.

“Let me guess- water polo?”

Ben grins. “Naturally.”

In the distance, they hear the sound of an amplified voice and look up to see the receding sailboat with Poe standing at the back, a rowing microphone held to his mouth.

“Everyone alright? All in one piece?” he bellows, and Ben is fairly certain they could have heard his booming voice even without the plywood trumpet.

“All accounted for!” Ben calls.

“Fantastic! Good show, Benjamin! Very rousing! We’re turning her around, give us a minute to adjust the sails!”

“Go on without us!” Rey calls, her voice surprisingly loud. “The tide’s going out, it’ll take forever and we need to go dry off!”

“What?” Poe bellows.

Seeing the sense in her idea and beginning the slow progression to swim to shore, Ben draws in a deep breath and calls, “Leave us!”

“Oh! Right, you sure?”

“ _Yes,”_ they both holler, truly winded now as they begin swimming together. Rey wasn’t exaggerating; she’s truly not much of a swimmer, and he has to support a great deal of her weight as they make their slow way toward the bony white expanse of Snoke’s dock.

Poe says something else, but the boat is too far away now, and they’re almost to the dock. When they reach the ladder, Ben all but shoves Rey up it, his breaths coming in short gasps.

_Nothing like fighting the tide while fully dressed and supporting his fake fiancee to knock the wind out of him._

He’s too fatigued to even stare at her ass as she climbs above him, and then he’s hauling himself up and over the edge after her, exhausted and reeling as the adrenaline starts to fade.

They fall back onto the sundrenched boards, the aching sun overhead indifferent to their near-death experience at the hands of the ocean. When he finally catches his breath and the worst of the adrenaline passes, the fear comes.

He sits up, rolling over slightly and looking at her, running his hands across her face, looking for any signs of… he’s not even sure _what,_ just that he needs to touch her, needs to verify with his own two eyes that she really is alive and well.

Rey, exhausted and looking faintly murderous, doesn’t even shiver, just meets his eyes with a cool sort of composure and says, “I’m going to kill Armitage Hux.”

If he had any lingering fears that she was somehow damaged by the fall, her words soothe him, and he flops back onto the dock again, exhausted.

“How?”

“Arsenic would be chic,” she pants.

“Mix it in with his sugar?”

“I bet he takes at _least_ two sugars with his morning cup,” Rey says sourly. “I think that would be enough to take him out.”

“Well, that won’t work,” Ben says, his breathing returning to something approximating normal.

“Why ever not?” Rey says, rolling over to glare at him from one side. Her arm, white and blueish at the tips, stretches out over her head on the dock. By some miracle, the engagement ring is still there, glinting brightly in the sunlight.

“Because I’ll have gotten to him myself before breakfast tomorrow,” he says.

Rey grins. “Your mother will have to adjust the guest list for the engagement dinner. She’ll be very sore.”

Ben rolls over onto his side, and they are face to face at the end of the dock, her in a sopping wet dress clinging to her every curve, him shirtless and exhausted with his hair a mess. She is alive, and she is smiling at him while plotting a murder.

“Upon reflection,” Ben says, “I’ve decided I can live with that.”

She gives him a smile, her freckles very tan in the shadow of her body, her dress open at the neck so that he can see the very curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, the heaving of her chest. For a minute they just lay there, staring at each other. And then, her cold fingers moving deliberately towards him, she reaches for his temple to brush his hair back.

The movement is so gentle, so impossibly hesitant, and yet he’s still startled by it. That contact of her thin, ice-cold fingers on his skin has his toes damn near curling, and as she tucks a strand back to expose his eyes, her fingers drift over a very faint scar on his temple from his war days. She lingers there, tracing the line of it down his cheek and stopping right by the edge of his mouth.

“You’re…you’re so brave, you know that?” she murmurs, her eyes on her fingers.

He moves his head just slightly to bring his mouth closer to the pad of her finger. His breath catching, she doesn’t move her hand, she lets him bring his lips to her, lets him brush his mouth against the fine skin of her hands.

“I said I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

She curls her fingers slightly, dragging the sensation from his lips down to his chin and then curling her hand back to her chest as if protecting it.

“Fine job you’ve done of it,” she says, half-laughing. That spark is back in her eyes. With a little grunt, she sits up and-

“Oh _lord,_ ” Ben sputters, rolling onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut.

She _definitely_ does not wear anything under her dresses.

“Hm?” Rey says, squeezing her hair out over one shoulder and eyeing him speculatively. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he says resolutely.

Rey snorts. “Ben. They’re just breasts. I’m _cold._ ”

“Then kindly do some calisthenics or something to warm up,” Ben says crisply, trying to think about anything other than sitting up, rolling over onto all fours and crawling over to her, pressing his body on top of hers and warming her up _manually_.

“Really,” she says. “Alright.”

He lifts his head and glances at her as she begins lifting her arms over her head in a stretch, her eyes mischievous and-

“Are you toying with me on purpose? I _am_ a man, you know,” he blusters, his eyes fixed on her cherry red mouth, her elegant neck, the swell of her tits under that goddamn dress.

“I did know that, actually,” she says, stretching those arms over head and giving him a grin.

She is doing it _on purpose._ Ben feels an odd sort of rocking sensation in his chest that is not unlike being tossed off a sailboat, because it suddenly occurs to him that Rey might _actually_ reciprocate his feelings. If not emotionally, then she’s at least… not put off by him.

For all the times he’d tried to subtly hint that he wanted her, wanted more of her, she’d never seemed to connect the dots. Dinner didn’t mean takeout in her office. Going to a play didn’t mean he had a lead. She’d always seemed so…oblivious to him. But now-

 _Now_ she’s giving him coquettish glances and thrusting her chest out at him teasingly and he is not prepared. On the one hand, it’s his every dream come true. On the other hand, he hadn’t fully considered the implication that she might actually let him kiss her. That she might have laid awake imagining him, too. Would she object if he lifted himself up on his arms, pushed one hand up to cup her cheek, and kissed her slow and lazy on this dock?

Rey’s eyes flit above his head, her fine neck craning to look at something. Sitting up, he follows her glance and sees-

Leon Snoke, dressed in an immaculate seersucker suit and trailed by a nervous looking man with the air of a butler, is striding down his marble steps towards the dock. From this distance, Ben can’t make out his expression, but Snoke always carries himself with the tightly coiled energy of a man accustomed to getting his own way.

“Is that him?” Rey mutters, her voice darkening slightly. With her usual eye for nonsense, she has already formed an unfavorable opinion of the man walking towards them.

Ben doesn’t have to ask her what she means.

“Yes. Don’t worry,” he adds, a touch grimly, “He’s going to love you.”

For the first time in what feels like five years, Rey’s hand flits up to her collar and nimbly does up the buttons until she is as conservatively dressed as a Quaker. A Quaker in a thin dress with no undergarments on underneath. Ben could curse out loud.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and they are sitting in Snoke’s elaborate, gilded living room, drinking weak coffee from tiny cups. Ben, still shoeless, shifts uncomfortably in a tiny, elaborately embroidered chair, wishing desperately for a cigarette or a glass of whiskey or some chemical compound to relax the tension coiling in his neck and shoulders.

Across from them, his shirt open at the collar and exposing an uncomfortable amount of neck, sits the scarred, smiling body of Leon Snoke.

Snoke’s a slimy bastard, which isn’t news to anyone on the island, but something about adding Rey into the mix makes him deeply uncomfortable. It’s nothing like bringing her round to Poe’s place, because there she’d made him feel more at home, somehow.

Here, he’s conscious every second that she is a bug under a glass to a man like Snoke.

Rey is saying, “Anyway, just an accident. I should have had a better grip.”

“How unfortunate,” Snoke says coolly. “The Atlantic is so unforgiving this time of year. Benjamin, I’m surprised you weren’t keeping a better eye on your fiancée. Perhaps she could have benefited from some kind of leash.”

Rey stiffens. Ben forces himself not to throw his coffee cup at Snoke’s head.

“Speaking of tiresome social conventions,” Ben says,“You haven’t wished us a happy engagement.”

If his mother has taught him anything, it’s that you’re allowed to fight with etiquette in situations when you’re not allowed to put a fist through a man’s head.

Snoke smiles. “My mistake, of course. Best of wishes to you both, I’m sure. I hope your marriage is less tumultuous than your engagement.”

Rey is uncharacteristically silent, her face serene but her eyes roving around the room. Level-headed under pressure as always, she appears to be pretending not to notice Snoke’s thinly veiled barbs.

Ben adds, “Oh, I’m not sure. I find a little excitement is good for a relationship, don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

Rey blinks, her lips twitching. “Couldn’t agree more, darling.”

Of course now, in the thick of an investigation, things between them move as easily as breathing. They know who they are when they’re working. They know what they are. It’s the quiet moments, the ones where he wishes she would call him darling and mean it, that get him into trouble.

“Ah,” says Snoke, as if appreciating a fine wine, “Young love. How touching. Benjamin, I do hope that your marriage means we’ll see more of you here on the island. I need all the help I can get with our intractable neighbors.”

Ben feels the impulse to clench his fists, but resists it. Snoke is attentive to body language, and if Ben gives away the bone-deep annoyance he feels in his chest at Snoke’s paper thin attempts to ingratiate himself with him, the odious man will undoubtedly notice. With grim amusement, he thinks that he and Rey have that in common.

Snoke turns, exposing the smallpox scars pitting one side of his face. “Mitaka. Bring us some sandwiches.”

“Oh, that won’t be-” Rey starts to say.

“Our guests are hungry, they want lunch,” Snoke says, ignoring her.

Rey’s jaw clenches, and he can make out the goosebumps dotting her arms.

“And a towel,” Ben adds, giving Snoke a pointed look. “Rey needs to dry off.”

Snoke waves his hand in a lazy gesture of approval, and Snoke’s butler scurries out of the room. Not unlike a beetle.

“As I was saying,” Snoke says, dropping another cube of sugar into his cup. “I do so look forward to bringing our charming neighbors into the twentieth century. As you and I _both_ know, the financial models of the past must be modernized. The haute monde no longer exists as it once did-”

Rey’s teeth start chattering. Anxious, Ben reaches across the fragile little table between them and takes her hand in his, chafing it.

“-and the aristocracy must adapt. We can no longer be too proud to purchase certain securities and insurance against life’s misfortunes, as I’m sure these unfortunate thefts have proven.”

 _Aristocracy?_ Ben all but rolls his eyes.

Rey digs her fingers into his palm. He lets himself stroke her thumb.

“I was sorry to hear your home was struck by thieves,” Rey says.

“Well, what can one do,” Snoke says. “Times are changing. Things are no longer as they were in the old days when one could trust one’s neighbors.”

“Though, I suppose,” Rey says, her expression blank, “If society hadn’t changed, we would neither of us be sitting here today.”

“What do you mean?”

Rey gives an ambivalent tilt to her head. “Well, it would be unthinkable in our parents’ youth for new money to make its way behind the close doors of the upper classes. And yet, here we sit.”

Ben keeps his expression carefully bored, but inside he feels like laughing out loud at the sheer _nerve_ of her. She’s too quick a study to have missed Snoke’s obvious attempts to distance himself from his ignoble beginnings, and here she is calling him on it.

Snoke gives her a smile that is devoid of amusement.

“Small mercies, I’m sure. But tell me, Rey, what is your background? Who are your people?”

“Oh, my parents were farmers,” Rey says, lying fluently. “In the middle west.”

“How picturesque.”

“It was. Of course, I was sad to leave it, but my passion for the arts led me to the city. I’m fascinated to learn more of your art collection. Wherever did you acquire your pieces? From what I saw, your tastes trend towards the Baroque, it seems?”

Snoke blinks. “Yes, Baroque. I’m partial to it.”

Rey turns to Ben, and there’s a glint in her eye. Some note of...triumph?

“How marvelous. Darling, you must show him some of your fine pictures sometime.”

Rey turns to him, still shivering a little but making an admirable effort not to chatter.  

“Benjamin’s financial ideas are of more interest to me, I’m afraid,” Snoke demurs.

“Oh, rather,” Ben says, trying to sound as bland as possible. “But let’s not bore the lady with discussion of the financial world.”

“Quite right,” Snoke agrees. “I hope you’ll be giving a party for your engagement. I’ve not received an invitation.”

It’s such an ill-bred remark that even Rey looks uncomfortable, but she recovers swiftly.

“Leia and I were signing cards just this morning, you should receive one this afternoon,” she murmurs.

Snoke goes momentarily a little rigid, and Ben wonders if it’s Rey’s use of his mother’s given name. Leia has never given Snoke leave to use it before.

“Delightful,” Snoke says, his voice gravelly.

The parlor doors open, and the butler strides into the room, a large towel draped over one arm and a tray of sandwiches in the other.

“Ah, here we are, _finally_ ,” Snoke says, the pretense of politeness gone from his voice.

The butler hands Rey the towel and she makes quick work draping it around her shoulders.

“Would you excuse me for a moment? I’d like to tidy myself up a bit, if you don’t mind,” Rey says, her voice honey sweet and apologetic.

Ben scowls. _Not this sneaking around without him business again._

“Of course,” Snoke says, gesturing at the door. “Just down that way is a powder room. Do call if you get lost. Mitaka, leave us.”

Ben shifts, uneasy as Rey gets to her feet with the towel wrapped around her shoulders. She’s doing a very good impression of a young, eager-to-please fiancée, uncertain of herself in a grand home, and even Ben is nearly fooled. Nearly.

“Thank you, you’re _so_ kind,” Rey says, walking to the door.

The minute the latch clicks and they’re alone, Snoke turns his narrowed eyes on Ben.

“Unusual choice, Ben.”

“Pardon?” Ben says, reaching for a sandwich. He’s damned hungry after all that swimming. And lusting.

“Rey.”

“Oh, you mean Miss Kenobi,” Ben says pointedly. “What can you mean?”

“Well, to be perfectly frank, we all thought you’d marry someone more-”

“I’m sure you’re not about to speak ill of my intended,” Ben snaps. “It would lower you.”

Snoke holds his hands out in a gesture of apology.

“I only mean to put you on your guard. You can’t trust anyone, these days. And I’ve heard ill reports of her conduct.”

“Hux is a prat with bad taste in suit jackets, racehorses, and bedfellows. Why _ever_ would you listen to him?”

“Because he’s fond of you,” Snoke says coolly. “As are we all.”

“Then I look forward to your enthusiastic support of our marriage.”

Somewhere, lingering like a migraine, is a well of anger so profound that it threatens to break through his composure. Rey’s skin might be thick enough to ignore thinly veiled insults, but Ben’s own certainly isn’t when it comes to her dignity.

No one should speak ill of her. Inside his hearing or outside of it.

Perhaps sensing Ben’s looming daydreams of violence, Snoke makes a visible effort to master himself.

“Of course, dear boy. Of course.”

Ben forces himself to relax. To change the conversation.

“On the topic of unions, I was curious how your merger went.”

Snoke leans back in his gilt chair, his eyes hooding slightly. “It went beautifully. I now own a majority stake in Dameron Steel. However did _you_ hear about it?”

Ben swallows a bite of sandwich. It is dry and nearly inedible. Some social gaffs might be recoverable, but a home with a bad cook is a marked for social death.

“Friend at the trade commission mentioned it. It was quite a scandal,” Ben lies, because in point of fact, Poe had been the one to tell him about it.

Snoke spreads his hands in a gesture of lassitude.

“Ah, well, you know what gossips the board members are. What can one do. Just business, you know.”

“Quite,” Ben says, wondering just _who_ Snoke paid off at the Federal Trade Commission to get past the anti-trust legislation. The Harding administration's predilection for payoffs is well-known enough, but he’s never directly met anyone who’s done it. “Was Poe very put out about it?”

“Young Dameron barely looked up from his picture papers,” Snoke mutters. “Not a very sharp lad, that one.”

Ben snorts.

Defensive, Snoke adds, “And if you want to know the truth, I believe the young man is mixed up in some kind of…racket, or some such thing.”

“Oh?”

“Some alcohol import business. Very unseemly, though of course this prohibition nonsense is dreadful. Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t catch up with him one of these days, what with the increased police presence on the island.”

“I haven’t actually seen an officer since my arrival,” Ben murmurs, realizing for the first time how odd that is.

Snoke raises a pencil thin brow. “Really? They wouldn’t leave me alone after the unfortunate theft here. Fortunately, the whole collection was insured, so I’m only out the cultural value, not the paper profits. If only the Damerons had seen fit to take advantage of my services, they might not be out quite so much.”

“I hope they’ve changed their mind,” Ben lies.

Back on comfortable ground now, Snoke sits up a bit straighter. “Well, it’s confidential, of course, but I can suggest on good authority that they have come around to the benefits of modern insurance practices.”

The smugness in his voice is cloying, and despite his damp clothes and wet hair, Ben has a sudden longing to be out of doors, standing in fresh, cool air. Perhaps with Rey at his side, wearing that dress from the boat.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll follow my fiancée’s lead and clean up a bit,” Ben says, discarding his half-eaten sandwich on his teacup and getting to his feet.

Snoke doesn’t rise, just points at the door. “Just that way, my boy.”

When he makes it out of that odious sitting room, Ben takes a long glance around the ornate, marbled foyer, brightly lit by gilt fixtures and drenched in Louis XV petit-point mixed with garish Rococo tables, Ben all but rolls his eyes. Then, following the same instinct he always follows (the one that invariably leads back to her), Ben mounts the staircase.

She’s in the gallery, of course, and when he enters after her she doesn’t look surprised to see him. Against the red carpet underfoot and framed on either side by enormous Fragonards of dubious virtue, she’s standing in front of an empty bit of wall where the stolen work must once have hung.

“They’re fakes,” she murmurs.

Ben blinks. “What?”

“Look at the brushwork. It’s chaotic. And the glaze on this,” Rey says, pointing disgustedly at a painting, “it’s all wrong. Look how clear it is. This painting is meant to be from 1760, and they’re obviously using a modern glaze.”

“Could have been restored recently,” Ben points out, squinting at the painting.

“A _child_ could have glazed it better,” Rey scoffs.

She would know. She used to forge art herself, back before he knew her.

“Still, how can you be sure?”

Rey gives him a slightly sly smile. “Well, if you must know, I’ve seen the real one. It’s in storage at the Musee D’Orsay.”

Ben frowns. “You might have led with that point.”

She ignores him.

“It’s more than that. He’s too casual about it. He doesn’t care about the artwork itself, for him it’s just an investment. He didn’t correct me when I said he favored the Baroque; Ben, he doesn’t _own_ a piece of Baroque art. It’s all deeply Rococo. Even an amateur could tell the difference.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No,” Rey admits. “But it is suspicious. What kind of man insures art for a living without giving a damn about the cultural legacy of the pieces themselves? And to make it worse, he’s got a gallery full of _forgeries_.”

Ben glances around. “Are they all fakes?”

Rey shrugs. “Hard to say for certain. I’d imagine some of them must be real. But I can say with certainty that this one’s fraudulent, which means the rest are suspect.”

“I _thought_ you’d see right through him.”

Rey turns to him, her eyes bright. “You think it was him, don’t you? Behind the thefts.”

“I don’t _like_ him,” Ben corrects. “That’s not evidence.”

“No, but if these thefts are motivating your neighbors to buy highly expensive insurance on their collections, I’d say it counts as a motive.”

Ben blinks, startled. “You know, that genuinely hadn’t occurred to me.”

Rey looks pleased, a pink flush staining her cheeks.

“There, I’ve earned my keep,” she says, crossing her arms in self-satisfaction.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? This is why I’m here, isn’t it?”

_No, not really._

“Well, yes, but-”

“And after all,” Rey interjects, her voice a little hard. “I couldn’t sleep at night if we put your friends and family to all this trouble if I didn’t at least give you something you can use.”

“You don’t have to frame it in quite such a mercenary way,” Ben says, a little stung. Of course she’s _right._ This was the deal. But when he’d seen her standing on the deck of Poe’s boat, her hair blowing in the wind and her cheeks flushed with pleasure in the fresh air, her laugh hadn’t been the forced, calculated laugh of Rey in the midst of an investigation. And the look on her face when his mother smiled at her, that softness that filled Rey’s eyes in response, that hadn’t been fake either.  

“I’m not even paying you,” he points out.

“No, but you will end up paying for it, in the end,” she says, absently chewing on her lip and her eyes drifting down the gallery.

“Just what does that mean? It’s not like you to be coy.”

Is he itching for a fight? He can’t tell, exactly. But what he knows for sure is that there’s something simmering under her cool facade, something that makes her breath come short and her eyes glaze over. Ben wants to get at _that_ , to push past the front she’s hiding behind.

Rey exhales. “I only mean that your friends will feel hurt that you lied to them, and your family will be-”

“I never asked you to protect my family,” Ben points out. “You don’t need to care about their feelings.”

“Well I do,” she says. “I always have.”

Ben remembers the way she’d looked at him the night he’d finally worked up the courage to face her again. She’d looked at him like he was someone alien, like there was a glass lens between them that distorted his image.

His voice is mild. “A cover story never bothered you before. We’ve lied to police officers, federal agents-”

“This is _different,_ ” she snaps. Color rises to her cheeks, and she’s tugging at the towel like she’s trying to bind herself together more firmly.

“Is it?”

“I _care_ about you,” she says, still scowling, her nose wrinkled up. And even like this, crabby and freezing cold, her words make him feel warm. And afraid. He opens his mouth to say something- though he’s got no idea _what,_ when she holds up a finger to cut him off.

“And I care about your family, Ben, and if you must know, I don’t want to hurt them,” she blurts, and when she looks up at him again there are tears in her eyes and-

“Oh, no,” he blurts, his hands useless at his side, a small battle raging in his chest between quiet, deep pleasure at her admission and stark terror at the fear in her voice.

“My thoughts exactly,” she murmurs. “This is all just getting too personal, and we’ve only been here for two days. So, if you don’t mind, please just… just let me take professional pride in having accomplished something. In having done my _job._ ”

She puts so much emphasis on the word “job” that he almost winces. It’s like she’s reached out and shoved him, reminded him that she isn’t here to make friends, she isn’t here to have fun. She’s here for work.

Of course, he _had_ lied to her. For a long time. And he _had_ offered her this job, had promised her that it was one last thing. If it stings a little that her motives were what she directly told him they were, well, then he’s a bigger fool than he’d realized.

Rey tells the truth. She always tells the truth to him.

“Of course,” he says, and even to his own ears he sounds stiff and unhappy.

For a second, she looks disappointed.

But the thing is, in his heart of hearts, he doesn’t believe her. He’d seen the way she looked at him last night, the way her eyes had followed his hands, the way she’d traced the lines of his mouth, the way her breath had come quick when they’d been lying together on the dock. At least physically, she likes him.

“I suppose that you and I have a different philosophy about interpersonal relationships,” he murmurs.

She blinks. “Hm?”

“You want to pretend there’s a solid line between personal and professional, fine. But I’m afraid I don’t quite believe in that border the way you do. I don’t think it’s possible to be strictly professional about something like this.”

“Then why did you bring me here in the first place?” she mutters.

“Because I needed you.”

It’s a simple statement, but then truth usually is simple, when you boil it down.

He’s not sure what he’d expected from her in response to this statement, but sudden, thunderous silence was definitely not it. Rey stares at him in consternation.

“You said that before,” she murmurs. “In my office.”

“I remember,” he says. And god, does he. It was probably the truest thing he’s ever said. Will ever say. And he can’t seem to stop saying it because-

“It wasn’t the same, after we ended things. I wasn’t the same.”

“It wasn’t like we … broke up _,_ ” she huffs.

“Yes, it _was_ ,” he says, heat rising in his chest just at the memory of her shutting that door in his face, knowing it was his fault she didn’t trust him, _his_ fault she was injured.

_Did he love her, even then?_

“We weren’t sweethearts,” she murmurs, staring up at him. “Not like in the movies.”

_Of course he loved her then. And every god damn minute since._

“No, we weren’t.”

And there is a long silence, and they just look at each other.

“But we are partners,” he says, hopefully. “And we always have been.”

Rey manages a little smile, hesitant but sincere. The wetness in her eyes is gone now, and she puts her hand up to her mouth. The diamond winks at him.

“If it makes you feel any better, my parents won’t be surprised,” Ben hears himself saying. “When I tell them the truth. They already think you’re too good for me. And they know I have… a penchant for detective work.”

Rey frowns. “Me? Too good for you? Look, if that woman who turned you down all those years ago put that idea into your head, I’ll kill her. Just because _she_ didn’t want you doesn’t mean you’re not a fine figure of a man, and a good person.”

For a minute he has no idea what she’s even talking about, and then he remembers. That story Hux told her. Her concern that there was some woman he’d turned down.

The confusion must have registered on his face, because her own mirrors it, and he can almost _see_ the wheels turning in her head. _Oh god, she knows, she’s figured him out._ He’s panicked, filled with dread, because he’s not ready for her to understand this part of his life, not ready to face that awful looming chasm of a conversation.

And then they hear the sound of the gallery door turning, and their gaze takes on a different sort of panicked, silent exchange. Snoke was already suspicious of Rey. They hardly need to get caught “lost” in _two_ separate art galleries.

“We can’t get caught here,” she breathes, on the exact same page as he is, as always. They scan the room for a way out, because they have no cover, no excuse-

“Ben,” Rey says, and he meets her panicked gaze. “I’ve got an idea. Trust me?”

“Yes.”

The door swings open and he considers just picking her up and claiming she fainted or something equally ludicrous when she stands up on her toes, grips him firmly by the shirt, and presses a firm, hot kiss against his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the brilliant Casey for her beta read on this chapter! 
> 
> I'd also love to have you join me on [my Tumblr](https://violetwilson.tumblr.com/) or even better on [my Twitter,](https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites) which is where I'm most active. I post lots of stuff on there, like polls and writing tips and such. 
> 
> If you're enjoying my story, I would be sincerely grateful if you'd leave me a comment, tell a friend, or drop me some kudos. It's the only way I get paid ;D


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